


All That's Left To Chart

by ignited



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Bodyswap, Crack, F/M, M/M, Magical Accidents, Multi, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-22
Updated: 2008-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared is a hot shot MTV VJ, easygoing and affable. Jensen is a brilliant science journalist, geeky and introverted. They’re a perfect case of opposites attracting, but when they’re unable to compromise and save their relationship, the natural forces of the universe decide to intervene. They wake up in each other’s bodies in order to get a taste of their very different lives—if they don’t drive each other crazy first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **abouttwoboys** , based on the film **Dating the Enemy** (1996)

“Don’t start stripping without me!” Jared calls over his shoulder, opening the front door with one hand as he readjusts himself in his boxers with the other.

The air’s cold in the hallway and it doesn’t help that he’s wearing nothing but an undershirt and boxers—it’s the combination of air and the person at the door that has him ready to plaster on a smile, the kind of action that becomes second nature after dealing with so many people day-in and day-out at the studio.

The guy at the door is fumbling with some papers in his messenger bag, bending at his knees a little before he straightens. He’s tall, lean and awkward, wearing rumpled, out of style clothes, hair floppy and in his eyes, plain black glasses—but his _face_ , green eyes and lush lips and freckles, makes him this pretty package dressed in some geeky ass wrapping paper.

So Jared takes a breath, his mouth pulling into a tight smile as the guy cocks an eyebrow, and looks Jared up and down, too, more obvious than suave. Yeah, let him get a look all he wants, from Jared’s striped boxers to his faded Cowboys tee. Jared knows exactly what he looks like, knows that the last few trips to the gym are going to pay off, both at work and maybe in bed, _tonight_ if Jared’s lucky.

The guy manages to straighten his bag. “Uh. Hi?”

Definite question mark at the end of that, because after all, Jared’s not wearing any pants.

“Hey! Oh. Hey, you’re Jensen, right? Mike’s friend from college?”

“Yeah,” Jensen responds. He pushes his hair behind his ears as he moves in past Jared and nervously shifts his weight from one foot to the other foot.

“We’re in the middle of strip trivia,” Jared tells him. Off Jensen’s look, Jared shrugs. “Honest. C’mon, man. It’ll be fun.”

He’s already pushing him toward the living room before Jensen can protest, wrapping his arm around Jensen’s bicep, feeling it tense underneath his rumpled sports coat. The guy's got muscles, isn’t some skinny, pale nerd—too bad he doesn’t show it.

Jensen’s wound up too tight, Jared thinks, watches him relax visibly when they get to the living room and he can see a familiar face. Everyone’s sitting around the coffee table, food all laid out, wine glasses and beer cans near empty. ‘Everyone’ being some of Jared’s friends: Chad, Tom, Mike, Katie, Lauren, Sophia. Boys and girls, and the girls are _hot_ , even with the crown piece missing—and that’s Sandy, his ex. Knowing her, she’s probably at some commercial shoot tonight. But that relationship’s over with since August, and Jared’s gonna have fun tonight, the girls certainly helping, the guys too.

Though, the guys help in a different way, because even if Jared’s a little bit bi, _that_ ain’t gonna happen with his buddies.

Everyone's giggling and laughing, tipsy, reclining on plush couches and supple black leather, all young, all _hot_ , both literally and figuratively too, clothes missing, shoes and stockings, belts and shirts thrown here and there across the hardwood floors, plush rugs, glass and metal art pieces. It’s singles night at the Casa de Padalecki, all of them free of any significant others today on the day that counts, Valentine’s Day. As for why the party’s at Jared’s apartment, free beer and food paid for by Mike—who wanted nothing more from life than the run of Jared's video game collection.

Except right now they’re playing strip trivia, and Jensen is up.

Jared notices the way Jensen fidgets sitting across from him, straight posture, one finger rubbing at the ring on his hand nervously. Other than what Mike told him earlier—draped an arm around Jared’s shoulder and said, _someone you oughta meet. He’s your type. Y’know. Happy. Or you’re half happy, whatever’s got you jonesin’ for tits still_ —he doesn’t know anything about him. Other than Jensen’s quiet. Shy. Nerdy.

And gay. At least, Jared’s _thinking_ Mike meant that; when you mix Mike and Chad and a few too many beers, it's hard to tell what they mean sometimes.

“Oh, this one’s easy. Music,” Jared says when he looks up from the trivia card, gets Chad nudging him in the side with an elbow.

“For you, maybe. You’re like, all zen with that kinda shit.”

“Dude, you work at the freaking studio with me!”

“Jared here’s gone for the big leagues,” Chad says, whether for his own or Jensen’s benefit, Jared isn’t too sure. Chad likes to talk a lot, and with the promotion he's got plenty of ammo. “He’s gonna be a _host_ now.”

Jensen cants his head as Jared adds, “On MTV. It’s—it’s nothing.”

“Fuck _nothing_ man, you’re gonna get all famous!” Chad crows as Jared shakes his head and leans along the length of the couch. He pauses for a moment, smiling at Jensen, only Jensen doesn’t respond the way Jared expects he will, you know, congratulate him or anything. Jensen just smiles, tightly, this look on his face that Jared _knows_ —it’s fake.

It’s just to be polite, hell, Jared knows all about that; he does it all the time.

Jensen nods and squirms a little, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. He can see Sophia talking in Tom’s ear, and they laugh, low, chatting quietly, chatting about _Jensen_ , sending furtive, teasing glances.

Jared starts to read the music card. “‘Chris Cornell, who later formed the band Audioslave with members of Rage Against the Machine, was the lead singer of which seminal Seattle grunge band?’”

There’s a quiet murmur of agreement, _easy_ , only Jensen bites his lip—full, red, _definitely_ noticeable—then shrugs. “No idea.”

“Soundgarden,” Jared says, takes a sip of his beer and muffles the disappointed noise from his mouth as Jensen’s item of removed clothing turns out to be a sock.

Jensen shrugs. “I’ve never heard of them. I’m a fan of country music though.”

He looks amused as Jared nearly chokes on his beer, Chad smacking him hard on the back.

They keep it up for a while, and slowly, the mood lightens up. Jensen seems to relax somewhat because he’s talking more, these little quips and comments that are smart, _deep_ or whatever—the kind that Jared’s almost unsure about, since most of the time when he’s dealing with these intellectual types of guys, he’s bored to death. They don’t know how to have any fun. Jensen though, Jensen’s smiles come easy when he relaxes. He has this sense of humor that lightens up a whole room. Everyone talks more easily now, no feeling of an _intruder_ , the geek.

Jensen aces the next round when it’s a question about biology—Mike and Chad snicker, yeah, those beers are going to good use—and human reproductive organs. Sophia smacks Chad on the shoulder, tells him to be quiet as she sips her wine, shine on her lips. When it’s Jared’s turn, Jensen leans forward to question him, top two buttons undone, glasses on the tip of his nose.

“What is the scientific term for the substance produced in the brain when, uh, one human being is attracted to another?”

Jensen's voice rises a little, like the pitch change hides an answer within it.

“Um—uh, steam?”

"No. Endorphins," Jensen says, covers his smile with his hand as Jared sighs overdramatically and starts to tug his t-shirt over his head. Great, Jared knows he should've gotten gone in for a tanning session besides all the gym time. He’s ready to make an orgy joke when he catches Jensen _staring_ at him, licking his lips and chugging a beer like there's no tomorrow.

Huh.

Then Mike tells a joke about biology, high school-type shit, and everyone’s laughing again, Jensen too, though it’s strained.

And fake.

Jared’s eyes don't stray from Jensen for the rest of the night.

People start talking in smaller groups, cleaning up, or trickling out the door. The night was fun and laid back, lots of jokes, food, drinks—it’s nice to have time off to goof off, chill out and hang with his friends before the hard stuff comes in. Pretty soon he’s gonna be up at late hours, weird hours—Jared’s not sure how much time the new job’s going to take up, but he knows it’s good work (and an even better paycheck), fame and fucking _fortune_. The hassle won’t be for nothing. He’s been waiting years to get to this point, working his internships, broadcasting jobs here and there until he got to the opportunity to work at the studio.

In two weeks, it’s all going to be different.

In two minutes, Jared thinks he might tip over from his awkward, tasteful slump against the wall near the kitchen, watching Jensen’s back as he cleans up the plates on the counter. He fumbles a little, like he’s not sure what to do with the big marble counters and sleek steel appliances, much like Jared does half the time—Jared doesn’t cook, only eats out or snags some junk food. The kitchen’s all show.

Jared takes another sip of his beer and clears his throat.

“You still checking out my ass?” Jensen asks, and the beer goes down the wrong pipe as Jared coughs and sputters. “Thought so.”

“I, uh, I _wasn’t_ —”

“Uh huh.” Jensen turns and grins, wiping his hands on a washcloth. He tosses it on the counter and leans against the edge with both hands.

“I really like you,” Jared blurts, and it even startles _him_. He hasn’t said _I want to kiss you_ or _fuck you_ , or anything like that, and he has in the past because come on, if you want it, might as well stop dancing around and fucking _say_ it.

But he’s never said, _I like you_. It feels more intimate than the others.

Jensen cocks an eyebrow. “Figures.”

“What?”

“I’m not your… type,” Jensen explains, voice unsure. Jared wants to take that questioning away, whatever slip of uncertainty that’s making Jensen say it. Jensen smile is tight lipped again. “Good luck with your promotion though.”

Jensen's ready to turn around and grab the stack of dirty plates when Jared lurches forward, all plans to saunter up, flirting, thrown down the drain.

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” Jared says, hands moving a little too much, steadies them. “That’s it? I mean—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But—But your type? What do you mean I’m ‘not your type’?”

“You’re a good guy, Jared. Don’t get me wrong, you _are_ , but I’m not interested in a one night stand.”

And that right there, that’s gonna be the death of Jared. See, normally Jared goes for the outgoing ones. Fucking on a subway? Nearly got arrested for it, and he's done stuff with guys, but with Jensen it's a mystery. One that Jared would like to unfold. Or strip down. In private. All to himself.

Better change tactics.

“Don’t let this handsome face fool you. There’s more to me than you think,” Jared says, half sarcastic, half sincere, and he’s laying it all on the line. Even giving Jensen the puppy dog eyes, because he wants to unravel this mystery right now, rip the damn glasses off his _face_ and—

“Jared, I think I’ve seen more of you than most people,” Jensen responds, points toward Jared’s hips, the low-slung boxers he’s wearing.

But Jensen is kind of flushed. God knows he’s gotta see the way Jared’s dick is half-hard, starts to strain.

“That’s just on holidays,” Jared replies, feels himself redden as he moves closer to Jensen, his walk a little more stilted than the sauntering he was going for. He gets a good step away from Jensen, leaning down to look at him. His eyes are clear green, color that can’t be muted by the glasses, soft spray of freckles over the bend of his nose, cheekbones. Jensen licks his lips, his expression shifting from quiet to nervous—something Jared doesn’t understand and _does_ , too, the way he feels a little erratic, not able to blame it entirely on the alcohol. “Valentine’s, Easter… Christmas.”

“There aren’t many holidays in the year,” Jensen says, keeping his eyes locked on Jared’s own. He steadies himself, like he’s ready to bolt, an action that only ramps up Jared’s interest.

“That’s because the rest of the time, I don’t have any underwear on either.”

“I'm not going to be seeing you the rest of the time, though, since I don’t think you’d be interested in more than one night, remember?”

“You don't know that for sure,” Jared says. “What if I were?”

Jensen rolls his eyes, small grin tugging the corners of his lips. “I’m too neat and organized. I’ll drive you up the wall.”

“I’m messy and late,” Jared responds, rolling his shoulder muscles, more out of impatience than shrugging. His dick is hard and ready, straining, barely going to last if he doesn’t do something right the fuck now. So he’s laying it on a little thick, and he might feel a twinge of wrong in the morning when Jensen goes, but he’ll be a good lay. Better than others.

Jared leans closer, legs on either sides of Jensen’s, hands settling on Jensen’s waist, and he says, low, “I _want_ you to drive me up the wall.”

And it’s tacky, and it’s corny, but Jensen’s mouth is soft and warm against Jared’s, eyes tight and shut, soft moan escaping. The taste is something he doesn’t know how to describe, but it fits, their mouths _fit_ , burning through his veins settles into a satisfied thrum, heartbeat steady.

They fit.

*

**One Year Later — Valentine’s Day**

It should be a sign when it takes ten minutes for the hot water to start in the morning, leaving Jensen shivering as he lathers up. Eventually the water turns warm and he starts to sing to himself, Patsy Cline’s “Walking After Midnight”, this old country tune his mom used to play for him back when he was little. He’s never gone out and sung in public but in private it’s comforting.

He clamps his mouth shut when he sees a tall shadow on the curtain and the squeaky faucet turns on.

“You singing again?” Jared asks, muffled with the toothbrush in his mouth. “Don’t stop. Your voice… Man, you should think about doing—”

“Shut up.” Jensen pokes his head out of the shower, eyes half-closed and vision blurry. The fact that he can’t see very well without his glasses adds to the little flare of anger that comes up as a defense, before Jared can continue. “I know I suck, okay?”

Jared’s eyebrows shoot up high and he spits into the sink. “No, I didn’t say that! Jeez. Just wanted to say my opinion.”

By the time Jensen is dressed and making breakfast, Jared is typing away on his Blackberry, hunched over as he sips his orange juice. He sighs heavily when he gets a look at what Jensen’s wearing, shakes his head like he’s past the point of protesting. Jensen isn’t the clotheshorse Jared is—mostly because he can’t afford it, already embarrassed at the care packages his mother sends him from Dallas. They’re filled to the brim with the same brand of white jockeys, same turtlenecks, button-down shirts, and slacks that he’s always worn. Clothes he can rely on, both dependable and efficient.

Jared’s told him more than once that he’d love to take him out on a shopping spree, “Platinum Amexes exist for a _reason_.” But Jensen declines, as always, not wanting to pressure Jared into buying him anything that he doesn’t truly need. It’s an old habit from growing up, he explains, and Jared replies that old habits don't have to include wearing clothes two sizes too big or a few years out of style.

Jared sucks down his egg whites and grapefruit, mouth full as he says he needs to get back to his apartment and get a fresh change of clothes.

“You know,” Jensen starts, pushes his glasses up as he sits across from Jared, “that old couple in your building, the Spencers? They wanted me to house sit and watch their pets. They assumed I’m good with dogs since they used to think I was your dog sitter when I first started staying over.”

“What? But—wait. Wait, I’ve had Lily doing that for years now. They thought you were my _second_ dog sitter?”

Jensen lifts up his mug of coffee, murmurs, “They were always trying to book me for a dog sitting. I think it’s because of all the times you tried to ‘tip’ me when I left your apartment that first week. Idiot.”

“Aww, come on, man. That was funny!”

“That was stupid.”

After a few seconds Jared starts laughing, this braying, loud noise in the small little hole in the wall apartment Jensen has, 110th Street and nowhere, affordable and ‘cozy’. Jared has always looked out of place sitting at Jensen’s small kitchen table, like he doesn’t fit on the chair, near the cheap plastic—sitting anywhere here, plain white walls that contrast sharp against Jared’s sleek jackets, trendy ripped jeans, and garish, artsy sixty-dollar shirts.

“They said they’re going on vacation on the twentieth. I can stay in their apartment,” Jensen says carefully.

Jared shakes his head, jabs at the buttons on his Blackberry without looking up. “No. Too close.”

“I’d be on the fourth floor. You’re on the sixth.”

“Exactly,” Jared says, suddenly getting up and grabbing his messenger bag. “It’s like living together. I like you, Jensen, but I’m not ready for that.”

He comes over and leans down to kiss Jensen on the cheek. It’s a quick peck, and when Jensen turns and opens his mouth, Jared pulls back and makes a face.

“Wait a sec.”

Jared fumbles and digs through his bag, producing a small little Ziploc bag with a toothbrush, holds it between two fingers. “You left this at my place.”

He grins, sharp, bright, almost out the door when Jensen flips him off and calls out, “Don’t forget about picking me up later, jerk!”

*

_“‘MTV VJ Jared Padalecki and his dogs Sadie and Harley’”_

It’s a good picture even if the photoshoot had been a bitch, some photographer constantly adjusting Jared’s clothes until Jared was wondering where, exactly, he could file a sexual harassment suit against a photographer without it becoming public.

Jared head-jerks as the stylist tugs at his hair with the hair iron. She’s harried and chatty as she tries to get his hair straight and manageable. He hasn’t had it cut in a while and it’s starting to reach his neck, long bangs and three-day scruff; it's rugged-looking, _good_. He’s filled out over the past few months and it’s something he thinks he prefers, an all over solidness that makes him look older, more mature than that stringbean eager intern who signed up four years ago. The producers seem to agree with him, even giving him a shot besides VJing: hosting a shitty little horror mini-series, _Room 401_ , because Ashton Kutcher was too busy doing some other shitty comedy to produce _and_ host.

His loss, Jared thinks as he rolls up the latest issue of _New York Magazine_ , making a mental note to cut out the clipping later.

There are going to be a lot more clippings where that came from, all because they’re in the middle of February sweeps and they’ve got a whole bunch of special guest stars lined up. ‘Special’ being code word for famous, the _studio_ word for a bunch of rock, pop, and rap stars Jared isn’t particularly thrilled about meeting, but a job’s a job, and this one’s raking in the cash by the bucket load.

Beyond the cash though, he does love his job—all the music he likes, parties, swag, free drinks and freed inhibitions, usually _him_ doing the encouraging there. He likes to entertain people, likes to be funny and charming, and he’s fucking good at it—his producers are backing him up to the network, rumors swirling that Jared’s going to get his own shot at hosting a late-night talk show. Carson Daly without the Carson or lameness. His future’s laid out on a golden plate.

Jared glares at the hair stylist. “You’re done. If I see any redness near my hairline, there’s gonna be trouble.”

The girl blanches and rushes away. His other stylist comes in and starts chatting a mile a minute—her bubbly personality too perky for this hour at the morning, but he can’t bring himself to snap at her, so he nods a lot and lets her do her thing. Being fashionable is integral to his line of work, so, like any other good host, he has someone else do it for him—Kayla knows the latest styles, takes his measurements and handles clothing purchases at high end stores. Latest jeans, latest suits—Rihanna nearly destroyed a cool grey Zenga suit of his once. That was a great party.

Kayla knows what looks good on TV and, most importantly, what looks good on _him_ , which would land her a bonus if he were in control of that kind of thing. She liked the one hundred dollar gift card to Virgin Megastore he gave her that past Christmas though.

Kayla starts talking about sweeps, and _oh_ , the clothes she can buy—at this thought, he smiles. One day he’ll have a black Amex, God willing, and that day will be soon.

“You’re _gorgeous_ ,” Kayla says. His automatic, plastered-on smile fades as Jared pulls on a jacket, the cut too tight. Jared’ll be sweltering in an hour, but by then the interview’ll be over and he’ll be out for drinks, maybe chat with the producers, then, _right_ , pick up Jensen and go to the party.

Talking over things with the producers is important; sometimes it’s easy to fall back on all the perks he receives—including tickets for two to this exclusive Valentine’s Day party—and ignore the fact that he’s not allowed to have any real input.

But if all goes well and he doesn’t fuck up in the next few weeks, he’ll get his shot and be able to show his ideas, _really_ get a foothold on the network.

He focuses on Jensen and how he’ll try to make it up to him later, _after_ the party. With the way his job has been crazy the past few weeks and his workload’s easing up again, Jensen’s been around.

He’s reliable. He’s good, Jared thinks, and focuses on Jensen’s mouth as he chats up one of the latest reality teen queens, placing an arm around her shoulders as he leans in to whisper a joke in her ear.

*

Even if it’s Valentine’s Day, whatever magic in the air isn’t settling into Jensen’s work, he knows, tapping his pen. The computer screen’s full in front of him, his article on a possible new natural source for diesel fuel ready to be handed in. He doesn’t lack inspiration; he lacks _motivation_ , because he knows how his boss’ll be.

Steve is a great guy, friendly, and an old college buddy of Jensen’s. He’s the one who recommended him for his job at the _New York Daily News_. But when it comes to the articles, Steve the _editor_ obviously isn’t going to put his friendship first and give Jensen free reign when it comes to page order. Meaning he’s going to nod and approve of the article, then bury it in supermarket and breast enhancement ad pages—or worse, change words around to make it more ‘punchy’. Never mind that it makes scientific explanations pointless and immature when the correct words are _taken out_.

There’ll be no page-three glory, even if he could argue that the paper would benefit from having a few less pages covering Lindsay Lohan’s latest clubbing-and-rehab hijinks in the gossip pages.

There’s a surefire way to get in _those_ at least, Jensen knows, having glanced at them when he didn’t have any reading material around.

Jared.

The rumors going around the office—and other places Jensen hears about secondhand—have all but confirmed that Jared _is_ bi, but hasn’t said it. He says it’ll harm his career, his marketability, and so on, the sort of reasoning that leads to their arguments. It’s both easy and hard for Jensen to understand why Jared won't just confirm the rumors. Easy because of those reasons and hard because Jensen doesn’t see anything wrong with it. Difference is though, since he up and moved from Texas, Jensen has been out and while Jared is bisexual, he doesn’t feel the need to say more than necessary. Heaven forbid Jared ever have to admit that he’s in a relationship with another man.

Moving to New York City was the best thing that’s even happened to Jensen. It gave him a job, new friends, a whole new _life_ , where he could be himself, free and open. He'll never be the first to wave a flag at the parade down on Christopher Street, but it’s comfortable to be out and to have friends who don’t care, who aren’t covering up for you.

He’s not that outgoing a person as it is, so for Jared to cover this up, _them_ up, pass it off as rumors—it’s annoying.

One year and Jared doesn’t want him to move in, his spacious and trendy apartment devoid of any of Jensen’s belongings.

So, a month and a half too late for a New Year’s Resolution, Jensen decides to do a new one: give Jared an ultimatum, or end this.

It’ll work. He’ll make it work.

He’ll make it work until Jared flashes him a smile, and when he smiles his face’ll soften, like the years strip away and he’s this naïve kid ready to do _anything_ , a kid Jensen wishes he could have met before all this. There’s been a number of highs and lows, and even with all the disagreements they’ve had, they’ve made up. But the last two or three months haven’t been the same, those disagreements getting more frequent, Jared blaming his work load.

Jared is _one_ way to get noticed, but the thought of splashing their private lives in the gossip pages sickens Jensen. Even without him saying it, _knowing_ they’re together, the rumor mill churning away down the office won’t expose their relationship to the public because they won’t out a staff member that hasn’t asked for a raise in two years.

Instead of gossip? They should put in something _useful_. Turning algal oil into biodiesel fuel is useful.

“Give me an article on going green and hybrid cars, man, and you’ll get page three,” Steve says, waving a small stack of papers in Jensen’s direction. “You done yet?”

Jensen clicks ‘send’. “Actually, if you’re going to go green, the best kind of transportation would be walking.”

“Yeah, but walking ain’t gonna get you advertisements from Toyota or Nissan.” Steve leans over Jensen’s shoulder and narrows his eyes at the screen. “‘Algae as a Source for Diesel Fuel’?”

“It’s important!”

Steve straightens, ready to respond, when one of the office workers comes by and whispers in his ear, handing him a Post-It note. “One of those reality rich teens got arrested. Again. Jensen, page twelve.”

“But—!”

Steve is already gone. Jensen groans, takes his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The office TV is blaring commercials loudly, volume settling back to normal as it returns to another repeat of TRL—and that’s when Jensen stops rubbing and peeks out of one eye, looking at the host.

The host is a tall, broad shouldered guy, lively and full of boundless energy, waves his hands as he talks. The guest on the show is a tall actress, delicate and bony, the kind of brunette with dangling earrings and trendy clothes that Jensen can’t tell the difference between her and a hundred others, but the host seems to like her, like her a _lot_ , leaning in close, flirting. Any other host and Jensen would know that it’s just being pleasant, but this one?

This one is Jared.

He reasons it’s going to be a long night and it is, seeing as three hours later he’s sitting on the steps to Jared’s building, messenger bag slung around his shoulder, exhaled breath turns into puffs of smoke in the cold. After a trip uptown from work to change clothes—“something _normal_ ,” Jared told him—at his apartment, Jensen waits patiently, slowly freezing every body part off.

Some of Jared’s neighbors enter and leave the building, sometimes stopping to talk—funny how the dog sitter rumor’s going around—or offer to let him into the building, but he just flashes a tight smile and politely declines. A pang of coldness settles in his stomach when he watches some of them leave, the couples, having changed into dressy clothes for parties, or some still casual, looking forward to a night at home, dinner and a movie.

Jensen decides he’s waited long enough before he stands up and right there is when a black SUV pulls up to the curb. The window rolls down and Jared’s head pokes out, wearing aviator sunglasses.

“Hey, Jen! Sorry I’m late. Talking with the producers. You know how it is.”

Jared pops open the door and Jensen slips in, ignoring the urge to correct Jared for the millionth time about using that nickname. He’s ready to open his mouth when Jared shoves a teddy bear in Jensen’s lap, a fuzzy white one with a red bow and card.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Jared leans in and kisses Jensen on the mouth.

Jensen barely gets a muffled noise of surprise out as Jared lets go with a wet smack of his lips, motions fluid as he starts to pull the car away from the curb.

“Check this out. Go and press its paw. It sings! Isn’t it cute?”

“And you call _me_ the gay one,” Jensen says.

He stares at the teddy bear like’s a foreign object, this weird cuddly thing that he knows will be buried in some part of Jared’s house by the end of the week, if it isn’t torn open by the dogs first. Jensen grins as he opens the card attached to it, Jared’s flippantness and the cold wait pushed out of his mind.

That is, until he reads, _To Jared, love from the girls at ‘The Hills’! Enjoy the candy!_ and the cold settles back in.

“Do you know what street we should take?” Jared asks, glancing at the rear view mirror.

“I mapped it out earlier. Remember? I e-mailed you? You came late again!” Jensen snaps, frowning as he moves a little in his seat, turning away from Jared.

He ignores Jared completely and looks out through the window, gazing at the bright lights and people walking down the sidewalk outside.

*

When they get to the party Jared’s been invited to, Jared immediately separates himself from Jensen’s side to talk with others. He nods Jensen toward the food and drinks table and darts away. Places to go, people to see, mingle with, chat, air kiss, all the kind of shit that goes hand in hand with the job. They’re all good and bad, all too full of themselves, all too naïve. The young ones with these big dreams, casting couch rumors around the corner. The jerky ones, the scary ones, the little clutches of people with impeccable Armani suits and dresses, slinky and see-through, gold and silver bling.

The party’s on and the drinks are flowing, people’s inhibitions going loose, and Jared coasts along in the wave. People clap him on the back and shake his hand, drape themselves on him, air kiss, _real_ kiss, and it’s a whirl of sights and sounds, his body reduced to action and reaction.

A half-hour into it and Jared spies Jensen sitting over in one corner, sipping a glass of water. He’s wearing one of his ‘good’ suits, black with a dark blue shirt: it matches, sure, but the outfit’s a little too loose on him, as always. The fact that Jensen covers his body up all the time annoys Jared—he’s _seen_ it from all angles, from his strong jawline to his biceps, to the taut muscles of his belly and his ass. As careful and measured in sex that Jensen is, he’s not some delicate, gangly flower. Still, Jensen won’t budge when it comes to his clothing, instead opting to look like some frazzled, nerdy, floppy haired accountant. Didn’t even use the designer glasses Jared picked up for him, always wearing the thick black frames, dull and out of style on his face.

A sulking face, too. Whatever, that’s _his_ problem, Jared figures, cranes his head up to look over at the nearest TV in the club, one of the few bright spots of color in the dark recesses of the room. MTV is on, and there’s his face, bright and happy.

He looks down, and Sandy’s in front of him, sipping a Cosmopolitan and looking every bit as cheerful.

The last time he’d heard about her, she got a job on that Pussycat Dolls show and was ready to be whisked away to L.A. for filming. She starts off and greets him, still the same bubbly personality, smiling, cute, _happy_. Jared feels guilty for just being _next_ to her, like he’s sinned or something.

“Wow, Sandy. Uh, you look, you look great. It’s been almost a year, huh?”

Sandy nods, twirls the straw in her drink. “I heard you might be flying out to L.A. soon, too, right? Chad told me you’re getting a show?”

“Maybe,” Jared says. “Depends on how desperate the network’ll be after sweeps.”

“Yeah. That’s _wonderful_ ,” Sandy says, voice a little too strained for Jared to read any sincerity in it. You congratulate people and feel jealous at the same time. At least, he does, more often than he should. Sandy has always been outgoing and kind, not quite the down-to-earth girl that the press makes her out to be, but she’s good. She’s comfortable, and maybe that’s his reason for breaking up with her, while hers was trying to further her career. There aren’t any hard feelings, though there’s this undercurrent of worry running through Jared now, knowing she’s got a question on the tip of her tongue.

“Hey—um. What about…” She bites her lip. “It’s silly. But is that rumor about you true?”

“Take your pick,” Jared mutters. He cants his head. “Which one?”

“You know…” Sandy leans in and whispers. “You and—you and another guy? That you have a _boyfriend_?”

She shakes her head and smiles as she says it, this laugh that rises up in her, like she can’t believe what she’s saying. Jared can’t either, because he always gets this twinge of panic before the mask comes in, falls back into place. _This_ again, covering it up. What he does in his own private life is his own business and no one else’s. Besides, the last thing the network needs is for one of their top stars to come out. The way the press is nowadays, he’d be hounded by outlets like TMZ for _weeks_. Yeah, it might be wrong he’s not taking Jensen out here and there, but the guy never insists on it, always too humble and too quiet and _shy_ , so Jared doesn’t press it.

It’s when he responds, casually, “It’s—it’s nothing. Nobody. Just a lot of bullshit rumors and wishful thinking,” that Sandy’s eyebrows go up, and Jared turns.

Jensen stands right behind him, wide eyes narrow into a glare before he takes off, shrugging off Jared’s fumbling grip.

“Jen! Jen, _wait_!”

They get out to the back door of the club, green walls and dull off-white tile. Some couples scatter when they approach, others shrug and continue what they’re up to, something Jared’s hoping is just tonsil hockey and nothing else. He opens his mouth to explain but Jensen cuts him off.

“My _name_ is Jensen. Not ‘Jen’. Not ‘Jenny.’ All right? Does it even matter to you?”

“Yes it matters!” Jared snaps, waves his hands, low, calming. “Look, please, not here. Don’t make a—”

“Oh, fuck that!” Jensen yells, color to his cheeks. “You didn’t tell me about L.A.. And it’s—It’s like lately I’m just some kind of fuck buddy to you.”

“All right, _now_ you’re exaggerating,” Jared says, forcing a little laugh out as he smiles at the people nearby and starts to hustle Jensen through and outside the back door. The alley is dank and wet, reflections from overhead lights make the slick pavement white and black, some garbage littering the walls and corners. Cars rumble down the street nearby, the sound of thumping electronic club music a dull thrum in the dark.

Jensen rubs at his forehead, looking left and right, uneasy, restless. He looks up at Jared and it’s startling to see him so angry, because Jensen doesn’t _do_ that. Doesn’t need to, always pointing out the obvious with deadpan sarcasm and wit rather than raising his voice. Once in a while Jensen’ll stew and mutter, and that’s _it_ , no full-on emotion. Always analyzing, like a goddamn computer calculating away. It’s enough that now _Jared_ gets pissed off at the thought, how so many times he doesn’t even know what the fuck is going on in Jensen’s brain, how he doesn’t _say_ it enough, and then goes and gets fucking pissed off at Jared. He’s not a goddamn mind reader.

“Why couldn’t we go hom—to your place, huh?” Jensen asks. “Do we always have to go to parties? Do you always have to talk to everyone but me?”

“Yeah, well, you know, _you’re_ not any fucking help, man. You wouldn’t know a good time if it bit you in the ass!”

“Right, because _you_ sure know how to have a good time,” Jensen says, sarcastic and glaring. “Do you even hear yourself anymore?”

“Jesus Christ,” Jared snaps, waves his hands out, jerkily, rushed. “If I don’t, it’s ‘cause I can’t hear over you nagging me to death.”

The only thing heard in the alley is the echo from Jared’s loud voice. Jensen looks down at his shoes.

“That’s what you think I do. Nag you.”

“Goddamnit, Jensen,” Jared says, feels like the floor’s dropping out from beneath him, from his gut. It’s nauseous and thrilling, the lack of control and the red anger that flares up, makes him jumpy and restless. “You _know_ how it is. My job—”

“No,” Jensen interrupts. “No. I don’t want to hear about your job. It’s just TV, Jared. It’s not _us_.”

“We can’t—I can’t—fuck. You know what? Forget it. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. I’ve worked hard for what I have, and I’m sorry I’m not perfect like _you_. I can’t be you! I’m _me_ , Jensen,” he says, holds his arms out. “Right here, _this_.”

Jensen is open-mouthed, and Jared would normally kiss him to shut him up, put an end to that ever present introversion that’s a blessing and a curse in disguise.

Jensen exhales, breath gone right out of him, livid, furious.

“I _wish_ you could be me, so you could see how I feel for once. I wish I could be you, so I could show you what an asshole you’ve become these past few months!”

When Jensen leaves him standing alone in the alley, Jared doesn’t fall to his knees or anything like that. His stomach clenches and he blames it on mixing drinks, throat dry as he heads back into the party.

*

By the weekend, Jensen wakes up with a dull headache, more out of stress than a hangover. He pulls a baseball cap on low over his unkempt hair and meets up with Danneel for lunch at a bistro on Avenue C. Her skin is flushed and she’s wearing her hair up in a ponytail. She's just finished an early Pilates class. She teaches that, gymnastics, and strip aerobics classes twice a week. Always got a lot of jokes from Jared about it: _Don't her boobs get in the way?_

So it isn’t that surprising to Jensen when Danneel spends most of the meal coming up with different ways to harm Jared’s sexual organs, complete with wrenching and stabbing motions of her fork between bites of huevos rancheros. Though Jensen turns down her offers of maiming, it’s comforting to talk to her, even if she jokes about going shopping and getting manicures. They eventually settle on checking out the Strand bookstore at Union Square instead.

He gets in _some_ relaxation. Still, the stress is gnawing away at him: his job, his shitty apartment, his... _whatever_ it was, a year of his life with highs and lows that he won’t be able to get back.

By the time he’s in bed, punching his lumpy pillow and rolling around irritably, things have started replaying in his head again. Memories in snippets and catches of phrases that he goes over methodically, like they’re mathematical puzzles he can figure out the correct scientific answer to. Science, he can deal with. Correct reasoning and evidence. Jumping to conclusions is harder but he thinks he’s done it too much, and not _enough_ and—

Only way he gets to sleep is through the dull buzz of thoughts in his brain, swirling into a dead sleep that’s ended by the doorbell a few hours later.

Jensen groggily shuffles out of bed, body aching and feeling tingly all over, that sensation of his foot being asleep an all over body… _thing_. The word escapes his brain right now.

As does every other word when he opens the front door to face a flushed and harried version of himself in a dark blazer and black silk pajama pants.

“What the—?”

“ _Augh!_ ” the other Jensen shouts, waving his arms as he pushes Jensen back into his apartment, closing the door behind him. Jensen snaps fully awake; it's easy to do when he sees this doppelganger on the verge of hysteria, f-bombs growled out at the drop of a hat.

First thing that’s off—besides the yelling—is the way sensations rush in, displaced and unsettling. He looks down at himself and his vision is clear, near perfect without glasses. The fingers are thinner, longer. Arms are tan, a little more muscular and the _height_ , and this _hair_. He’s sweating, too tight in his pants and t-shirt, and can see the skin straining under the holes on his sleeve.

Fuck, he’s _Jared_.

He’s inside Jared’s _body_ , and _Jared_ is inside of _him_ , and oh, this is too fucked up and Jensen has to be dreaming.

“This is not real. I am asleep,” Jensen says, slowly, eyes shut, tries to ignore Jared’s smooth voice coming out of his mouth. “I am asleep and I’m never gonna have pad Thai _ever again_.”

“Oh, no, this is real, Jensen,” Jared says, “This is real and you’re in my fucking _body_ and this is _all your fault_!”

He grabs Jensen’s arms and shakes him, pinches him, makes his eyes snap open. Jared leans impossibly close, his eyes—Jensen’s _own_ eyes—green and squinty behind his glasses. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jensen thinks he’s got more upper body strength than he thought. He starts to push Jared off, but he has longer and unfamiliar arms, so they end up wrestling around and flailing at each other until Jared gets Jensen into a tight headlock.

“I’m hitting _myself_. _Fuck_ ,” Jared says, upper lip curling in distaste as he looks down at Jensen’s reddened face. “Oh my God, you make me look like I’m _constipated_.”

Jensen finally shoves Jared off. “Look. This—this isn’t scientifically possible. I mean, uh, it _could_ be but—”

“So, what, did I like, morph into you? Is that what you’re saying?” Jared asks, his eyes wide. “Did you put something into my drink? E? An upper? Freaking _White Out_? Oh my God. Oh my _God_.”

Jared starts pacing like an idea is formulating in his head, espionage and _Mission: Impossible_ -worthy scenarios. Jensen leans back against the couch armrest, almost falling on top of it thanks to miscalculating the ass distance.

“…I was supposed to be out partying with Chad last night. But I just crashed, man. He left me a message and I—I got up. Felt weird, like _tingly_ , you know? That pins and needles feeling. Went to take a piss and then almost cracked my skull open when I saw. I mean, if this is your idea of me gettin’ to be a mini-you, then congrats, _Jen_ , it fucking worked.”

Mini-you. _Shit_ , it all makes sense now.

“Wait. Remember…” Jensen trails off. He licks his lips, realizes halfway through they aren't _his_ lips—they're Jared's thin ones—and this is just too weird. “Remember what I said, last night? I said I wished you could be me, so you could see how I feel—and, and I wished I could be you, so…” He snaps his fingers. “You’re being taught a _lesson_!”

Jared rolls his eyes; the gesture's too sarcastic for Jensen’s face. “I’m in your body because of some crap you said last night?”

“There’s research about this,” Jensen starts, ignoring Jared as he rubs his neck. There’s a twinge in his shoulder that wasn’t there before. His whole body aches, like Jared’s hung over. He wouldn't be surprised. “Mind transfer, whole-body transplants, _head_ transplant… They might be able to do it in the future. It's related to the breakdown of molecules. If we went to sleep, and our bodies dematerialized and physically _transferred_ , then… If we just go to sleep _again_ , it might reverse itself. It—It could be something temporary. Like the 24-hour flu.”

“The fuck this is some kind of _flu_ , Jensen. This doesn’t _happen_.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to respond but Jared holds up a finger.

“If I’m being taught a lesson, so are you. Enjoy me while it lasts.” Jared pauses, then scrunches his face. “Wait, on second thought, don’t. Dude, don’t touch my stuff.”

“I _have_. A lot. Just not while I was _you_ ,” Jensen replies. Jared walks past Jensen and plops down onto his couch, sprawling and fumbling for a pillow. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you. Not until this thing is reversed. C’mon, you’ve seen those movies. You know, we go transferring, our molecules are flying through the air and then they might _stick_ in something and we’ll end up as Swamp Thing or Spider-Man or—” Jared breaks off, wiping at the hair in his eyes, pushes Jensen's glasses up irritably. “What, it could _happen_. What if we’re split up and we switch back as we’re sleeping? We stick together and we avoid any freakish _Fly_ problems. I stay here and we can, like, make sure no one else knows about it. Ride it out.”

Jensen hesitates before he moves to a tiny hall closet and pulls out a blanket, throwing it in Jared’s direction. “Don’t snore,” he says weakly, then pauses.

Jared has already caught up. He wriggles on the couch and says irritably, “Since you’re in my body, I think if anyone’s snoring tonight, it’d be you.”

Twenty minutes later and Jensen’s still awake, staring at the bedroom ceiling. The heels of his feet barely brush the end of the bed as he hears a faint snore coming from the living room.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day they’re up bright and early. It's awkward and hectic as they go through their morning routine. From the moment he wakes up—sees Jensen’s fingers, thicker, silver ring—Jared is cranky and groaning. The fact that the strong smell of bacon and eggs makes his stomach growl hungrily—fucking Jensen's stomach, totally _off_ his diet—and the fact that he can’t do jack shit about Jensen’s hair doesn’t help. Neither does seeing Jensen hunched over at the kitchen table, with Jared’s hair pulled into pigtails wrapped in rubber bands. The sweatpants and shirt Jensen wears do nothing for Jared’s figure, though they do at least look tighter on Jensen now that he’s in Jared’s body.

“Kept getting in my eyes,” Jensen says by way of explanation, pushing a stack of papers along the table. “Did some research. We’ve got an appointment at nine.”

Jared sits across from Jensen, eyes half-lidded. “With what, an astrologist?”

Jensen sips his mug of coffee. “Wouldn’t hurt to try.”

Jared doesn’t get a chance to protest because soon enough he’s at a doctor’s office, tapping his foot restlessly. Jensen throws him dirty looks over a magazine, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. He’s wearing a dark jacket, plain white dress shirt and tight ripped jeans. Jared told him that ‘he’ wouldn’t be caught dead with some of Jensen’s old clothes if they had to go out, so after a short trip back to Jared’s apartment—Lily’s holding the dogs for the weekend, thank God—to get a fresh change of clothes, they’re here.

They’re up shit’s creek without a paddle because two hours later they’ve got nothing other than strange looks, three psychologist recommendations, and a one for a proctologist.

“This _blows_ ,” Jared says when they enter his apartment, immediately pulling out his iPhone from Jensen’s baggy slacks pocket— _that_ has got to change—and starting to check his voicemail. It’s a weekend and a Sunday, meaning the message flow could be slower, but the idea that this all might be some bad prank and the punch line explanation might be buried in the sea of voicemails gives him some comfort.

Jensen follows him into the apartment with a set of two suitcases and his messenger bag, papers clenched between his teeth. They’d gone back to Jensen’s apartment to pack up his things, rumpled clothes peeking out of battered suitcases. The harried, busy look is _all_ Jensen’s, even the case of bedhead Jared’s body is now sporting, no thanks to being tied up by rubber bands before the doctor’s visit.

He’s gotta pick his battles, so the clothes win out over the hair, Jared reasons.

“You know, it’s kind of ironic,” Jensen says, later, opening up his laptop from his seat on Jared’s leather couch. “that it takes the scientifically impossible for you to agree to us living together in order to fix this.”

“Only because of the risk of us getting our molecules all scrambled up overnight,” Jared points out, waggles his fingers. It’s a whole bunch of reasons, actually. It’s not just the comforts of his home—his stuff, music, the dogs—but the fact that he can’t exactly let his own body be seen at Jensen’s building for a long stretch of time. “And because no way in hell am I moving ‘upstate’. Not to mention if anyone sees you in my body living at your place, they’ll start asking questions about us.”

“It’s 110th street!”

“That’s almost the _Bronx_.”

Jensen ignores him and looks down at his screen, murmuring as he clicks. “You’re going to have to turn in my article at the end of the week if I don’t call in sick tomorrow.”

“You wouldn’t,” Jared says, lowering his iPhone. “I got a meeting tomorrow. And—”

His stomach clenches at the thought of Jensen _filming_. The death of Jared Padalecki’s career in forty two minutes or less, news at eleven. He can’t even bring himself to continue—or he does, voice all squeaked out and unclear—because Jensen can’t even _sit_ or _walk_ like him properly, much less carry on a conversation with an actor or musician on national television. Then there’s the whole fact that he might be moving to Los Angeles in a couple of weeks if he doesn’t screw up at his job, and that option is looking less likely when he’s not even in his own _body_.

Off Jared’s nauseous look, Jensen shakes his head. “I think I know how to chat somebody up and stare at a girl’s chest for a half-hour, Jared. I won’t enjoy it, but your job’s a lot easier compared to mine.”

“Excuse me for forgetting the daily rigors of typing and making sure the coffee filter is clean!”

“What are you, twelve?”

“ _No_ ,” Jared snaps. He isn’t normally this irritable—at least, not to _this_ extent. Jensen's whole _body_ is tenser than Jared's usually is. It’s like his muscles cramp from the exertion of the way Jared stands, straight, feet wide apart. But it’s hard because he’s going through the motions, looking up ahead and not down, at _himself_. It’s like he’s being yelled at by his own body, an uptight and shy version that’s reprimanding him. And the funny thing is, even with the shit that’s gone down lately, he still feels this sort off—this sort of _longing_ , like Jensen isn’t there, but _is_ there. Surrounding and vacant.

Or all the stress in this body could just be because Jensen’s got his own built-in emergency worry switch.

Something he’ll have to get used to, because it looks like they’re heading towards Plan B, the one he hadn't wanted to think about: be each other.

Before that, he’s gotta lay out some ground rules.

Jared puffs out his cheeks, scrubbing through hair until it sticks up oddly, and says, voice strained, “Fine. Rules. First, no jerking off. I don’t care, think of something gross, Paris Hilton’s vag or something, just don’t do it. Only touching should happen is aiming when you’re pissing, washing in the shower, and keeping it from getting stuck in a zipper. Two: Don’t get my dick stuck in a zipper. Three: No haircuts. My haircut is written in my contract. So, um, Three is read my contract and don’t lose my job. Or I’ll do something horrible to _your_ body. Four: Don’t slack off on my workouts, man. Five: Eat something, Jesus Christ, I get hungry. Six: Don't let my body overheat, I—”

Jensen rolls his eyes, and says, “I _know_ , Jared. You get disgustingly sweaty. It's unpleasant for _everyone_.”

Jared flips him the bird, getting a smirk in return.

“So we’re really gonna do this,” Jared says, ignores the urge to clear his throat, try to change the pitch, the whole _voice_. “Be each other until this—this _thing_ reverses itself.”

“It should reverse,” Jensen says. He looks up, and even if it’s Jared’s eyes, the gaze is all Jensen’s, firm but optimistic. “It can’t be that hard.”

Jared moans and wipes his face, unfamiliar hair tickling his fingers. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

*

Getting into the MTV studio is easier than Jensen thinks it will be, considering that he's feeling less like Jared, MTV VJ and more like Jensen, Dork In A Jared Suit. The morning was one of the worst in his memory. Jared doesn’t have a personal assistant, preferring to take care of his own ‘stuff’, or have Jensen remind him. Jensen gets primped and prodded, shirts and jeans thrown at him. He’d dress _himself_ but Jared won’t let him, even if Jensen knows what looks good on him. Little less garish logos, less artfully ripped jeans—something calmer, relaxed.

Now is when he feels naked, holding his messenger bag tight against his chest as he gets the go ahead and enters the building. It’s like he’s waiting for them to pick him out, find his soul or consciousness or _whatever_ buried deep down in Jared’s body. Like they’ll point him out, how much he doesn’t belong.

Jensen goes through the studio, a chorus of greetings from co-workers following him. Past the cubicles, down a series of hallways. Jensen smiles weakly at the girls who shout their hello’s, their looks _weird_. On his face, or his ass, or his chest, many of the gazes, checking him out from all angles. He's blushing, all out butterflies in his stomach. Out of a side room, he hears a loud “Jared!” and then Chad slings an arm around Jensen’s shoulders.

“Hey, man! Where were you this weekend? I left like a dozen messages.”

“I was sick,” Jensen ventures, his voice small. He clears his throat and adds, “Didn’t feel like partying.”

“Oh, that’s cool. That’s cool.” Chad pulls back and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “You going in? There’s a staff meeting. Chris’ll have your head if you bail.”

Jensen nods and follows Chad into the room he points to: a spacious room with a large table in the center, impeccably dressed people already seated. The walls are covered in a slew of posters and clippings, old and new, different genres and different musicians. He feels tempted to stand by and look at the walls, but instead Jensen hustles over to the remaining empty chair, smiling pleasantly.

Jensen is the tallest one at the table and slouching isn’t going to help hide himself. Jared’s body isn’t _that_ bigger than his own, but sometimes it’s strange to notice how a few more inches, breadth, and pounds makes him this commanding presence, a feeling Jensen has never been acquainted with—because he’s never found any reason to.

He gets off easy in the first half-hour, when they’re just talking about upcoming schedules, dropping his name here and there. Jensen takes notes, shifting awkwardly in his chair to cover his notebook. The body is all Jared but the handwriting’s all Jensen’s, smooth and legible under Jared’s rushed and messy print. He laughs and nods at the right times, even if it’s stilted and awkward. The meeting isn’t all that different from the ones he’s called into do at the newspaper, only the industry, topics and co-workers are entirely… different. Maybe it’s a _little_ different.

“… that good, Jared?”

“What?” is what comes out of Jensen’s mouth, finds himself sitting straighter than before, and he immediately nods and tries to look down at the notebook in front of him. There are scribbles all over the margins, text blends into tiny little drawings, shapes and happy faces, and a really awful version of himself, because his hair doesn’t stick out like that. He looks at the last page Jared had written on, a small list of guests, and Jensen has no clue about half of them, the rest still pretty vague.

Jared is always surrounded by music, on his stereo or in his iPod, but it’s the record collection that Jensen always drifted towards. These new musicians are unfamiliar, and that’s not even thinking about the _actors_.

Then, Jensen reads off the Post-It Jared stuck on the last page: “That is, uh, ‘awesome’. It’s awesome. Um. ‘Dude’.”

The words sound lame coming out of his mouth and his neck is hot under the collar of his t-shirt. While he might need notes on responses, the fact that Jared actually writes out crap like _that_ —like he doesn’t think Jensen’ll know how he talks or how he reacts—that pisses Jensen off. Jensen smiles tightly and without looking, draws a big circle around a date on the paper. According to Jared and the current discussion, Jared's been on and off the air recently, behind the scenes work—and whatever work in L.A. that’s moving Jared there, Jensen realizes—preventing him from being at the studio five days a week. Jensen’s hoping this whole switching thing won’t last too long, because if it’s not hard enough trying to work together despite their differences, it’s going to get a hell of a lot more complicated when Jared has to move across the country. But after taking a leave of on-air duty to work on show stuff, Jensen learns from the meeting, Jared agreed to come back soon enough.

Giving Jensen a few days to prepare to be filmed live on national television.

And where his stomach should normally clench, it rumbles, the bottomless pit of Jared's body mocking his worry.

*

Over at the _Daily News_ , the day consists of online games, YouTube, and a lot of fake typing.

Jensen’s luggage fails to have any hidden compartment with a set of normal-looking outfits. For all the world you’d think the kid had come from anywhere _but_ Texas, a land where t-shirts and jeans were _required_. It’s all slacks, button-downs and polo shirts. At the start of their relationship, Jared hadn’t had any problem with the clothes that Jensen wore—in the early months, Jared thought Jensen was adorable in the dorky clothes. But at some point Jared started to mind them, growing increasingly annoyed at the fact that Jensen was covering up his body so much. Jared could try to ignore it because in the long run, it was _Jensen_ , part and parcel, and he wasn’t paying attention to _clothes_ , the outside. Just laughing at a joke they shared, instead, looking over at him and feeling good because he was _there_.

Except now that he’s wearing Jensen's body—and isn’t that a kick in the ass, what, his soul is like... _moving_ Jensen’s body around and that’s too deep at this morning hour—the clothes feel too awkward to wear, like a mask on top of another one.

He gets off easy for the day when there’s no article to turn in; it’s a slow news day, Jensen explains on the phone when Jared calls him over lunch, keeping the call short because he’s got work at _Jared’s_ job; Jared doesn’t let him off the phone until he gets an earful because, what the hell. He shouldn’t even be here; Jared should be at _his_ job, not Jensen, and this whole thing sucks so much. Jared keeps to himself and stays at his desk all day, unwilling to have to communicate with anybody. This is all too weird as it is; getting roped into some kind of project that he has to work on? No way.

The day drags on and pretty soon it’s five ‘o clock, Jared tearing off right on the dot, like it’s the last day of classes and school’s out for summer. Only it isn’t, because back then, he didn’t have to worry about living together with his gay ex-boyfriend who’s now renting his body.

Lily laughs him off when she arrives with the dogs, says he’s acting like, “his boyfriend, flirting with me. Oh God, don’t tell Jared I said that! I’m just joking.”

Jared laughs weakly in response. He only knows so many good dog walkers and, well, can’t fault a guy for trying.

The door closes behind him and he looks down at the dogs. Harley and Sadie are around his legs, sniffing him, whuffs against his slacks. A few more minutes and Sadie whines, rubbing her head against his thigh like she wants to be petted. His hand goes out automatically and scratches behind her ears, her tail whumping the floor—and that, right there, is the bright spot in his day.

Sadie never likes to be petted by Jensen, happy with trying to push him off the couch with her hind legs, lick his face whenever he’s taking a nap.

She _knows_ , somehow. Harley does too, already waiting with a tennis ball in his mouth when he only plays catch with Jared.

Jensen arrives a half-hour later, his hair windblown and clothes disheveled—he holds up a finger to quiet Jared before he can say anything. The dogs lift their heads and settle back down when Jensen comes to drop onto the couch across from Jared, eyes closed and a hand to his forehead.

“And just think, you’ll have to do all of that _again_ , tomorrow,” Jared deadpans, turning the TV off.

Jensen sighs, his hand coming down. “The work—the work I can deal with. It’s the ogling I’m not too thrilled about.”

Jared shrugs. “It’s not easy being this ridiculously good looking.”

“Why I ever sat through _Zoolander_ with you, I will never know,” Jensen replies. He cracks an eye open to look over at Sadie, who yawns and starts to swipe at Jensen’s thigh with her hind leg.

Jared scratches at his belly idly and raises an eyebrow. “Let’s go get some drinks.”

Jensen doesn’t say no to that.

When they get to the bar, Jared decides he needs some alcohol in his— _Jensen’s_ —system, a warm buzz that’ll work out the kinks in his neck and back. Take away the troubles of the day.

And add a whole ton of new ones, Jared realizes when they step into the bar. Being on the receiving end of dirty looks from people is new, their gazes fixed on Jared as they see him following Jensen in. Jared isn’t exactly A-list but he’s famous enough to get noticed on the club circuit. As ‘Jensen’ though, the bystanders give him dark looks, like they can’t believe Jared would associate with someone like Jensen. He’s not in the in crowd now; they read through it, this vibe of _oh_ , immediate dismissal. It’s pretty fucking stupid if you ask him, the way these rules work, because not even the decent looking suit Jared managed to dig out of Jensen’s suitcases makes them take notice. And Jensen’s fucking _hot_ , dudes.

Jensen tosses him a nervous glance. All the opportunity to mingle and the guy’s just standing there, awkward, hands in his pockets. The only thing he’s taking advantage of is his height, judging by the way he keeps looking over the tops of everybody’s heads to note all the exits.

It must be the day getting to Jared because Jensen, sweaty, bangs sticking to his forehead, in need of a shave and a tranquilizer, looks _really_ fucking hot.

Or Jared’s ego is already drunk.

The club’s a shitty place anyway, with lots of wasted-looking trendsetters standing around looking surly. Hardly any room to sit, and when there is, the couches are occupied with people groping each other, making out sloppily in the dark near short candles. It's full of high, round tables cluttered with plastic and glass cups, Jensen edging away from one of them. Like he’s too big and awkward, afraid he’ll bump into somebody, set them off.

“Jared!” Jensen calls, three feet away and barely heard over the pulsing techno beat.

“Yeah?”

“Why’re… Do these people know you? Did you piss them off?” Jensen whispers harshly, leaning his head down near Jared’s ear. Jensen smells like faded aftershave, sharp in the blurriness and dull candle scent of the dark, low lit surroundings. “They keep looking at me funny.”

“That means they recognize you,” Jared answers, leaning toward Jensen and raising his voice over the sound. He turns and says directly into Jensen's ear, “And they don’t want you to know that they think you’re awesome. Now, unbutton that shirt or you’ll never get the bartender to serve us.”

Jensen pulls back, the smell of his aftershave leaving Jared’s nose. He frowns and heads over to the bar, this jerky two step as he tries to casually unbutton the top button, wipes a hand down his front and over his flat belly. Jared tenses when Jensen goes up, but he orders two beers and gets them quickly, thanks the bartender, passing one over to Jared.

“Score one for the Ackles,” Jared says, bumps knuckles with Jensen. After he takes a pull of his beer, he flicks his fingers towards the crowd, questioning. “Don’t you wanna go and mingle?”

“No.” Jensen frowns, looking down at his beer. He lifts it and moves out of the away as some people move through the crowd, body all angles as he tries not to spill his drink.

“Hey! Watch it, that’s silk!”

“I’m _trying_ ,” Jensen says, and he narrows his eyes and scrunches his face up into a prissy look that Jared thinks is hilarious. And highly embarrassing.

A half-hour and too many beers later, Jared downs another shot and burps, licks his lips. “Dude, your… Your mouth. I forgot. Your mouth? Your mouth’s like… Like. Like, it feels real good, Jen.”

It’s a fucking _good_ observation if Jared says so himself, only thing is that Jensen’s not around to hear it, instead talking animatedly with some guys at the other end of the bar, the trendy type of guys who veer towards arts and sciences. Like, glasses and scarves, or, or—they’re wearing those, yeah, Jared can tell. All four of them. Two. Whatever. He’s not _that_ drunk.

He might be hallucinating though, because he sees Sandy, holding two Heinekens. She accidentally bumps Jared’s elbow and apologizes. She hesitates, recognition on her face as she smiles at him.

His fault; they used to frequent the bar. And now by all appearances, ‘Jared’ is bringing his boyfriend there, because ‘Jared’s’ conversation is finished and he’s standing right next to Sandy, holding a bottle of beer.

Jared thinks that he looks stupid. _Both_ Jareds.

He throws back a shot as she says, “Nice to see you both out and about. Hi, Jared.”

Jared grunts, getting lightly punched in the arm as Jensen slings a shoulder around him, leaning down towards Jared’s seat on the bar stool. “I’m sorry about the other night, Sandy. I should’ve talked it over with my _partner_ first. Because we’re—you know. _Together_. Practically like _this_.”

He crosses his fingers and Jared sucks his teeth, peering into his shot glass.

“That’s not what you said last night. _‘Baby’_ ,” Jared interjects, hands fumbling as he inserts one finger into his clenched fist.

Jensen takes one look at him, the way Jared raises his eyebrows over the rims of his glasses, and pours some of the beer on the silk shirt.

“Oh. Huh. How did that happen,” Jensen says flatly.

Sandy, meanwhile, just stares at them like they’ve got two heads _each_ , and Jared hopes both of his heads can go into a cave and never come out, the way the headache’s pounding in his brain.

*

Two days later and Jensen is still knocking his head on the shower head, long hair in his eyes. He doesn’t sing because Jared can’t— _really_ can’t, God, no—and he’s in a rush to get ready for the day: his _and_ Jared’s. _His_ , checking the article on his flash drive for Jared to turn in. Whereas Jared pulls his weight by handing Jensen notes that all amount to nothing when Jensen reads them aloud to Chris. The Post-It is cupped in one of Jared’s hands as Jensen glances at it, trying to slouch against the doorframe, bundle of papers and folders tucked under one arm.

“…and if we compress that segment at the end, we can have more time for at least one more _video_. Then we could—”

“Jared,” Chris starts, leaning over his desk to punch a few numbers on his phone keypad. “You know I appreciate your input. But we’ve got people working on that. No need to bend yourself out of shape, all right? Focus on your stuff, not everybody else’s.”

“But—”

Chris raises a finger to his lips as he points to the phone, waves him off.

The door closes behind Jensen with a soft click as he rests his head against it, eyes shut. This isn’t his natural element. There are offices, and arguments, _trying_ to get notice, trying to make things easier. But working at the _Daily News_ didn’t have him feeling like he was incompetent, that he didn't know any better. He’s a respected journalist there, with a degree in… right, Journalism, but he’s got tons of different minors, couldn’t quite pick a specialized field. He knows lots of stuff, and they _listen_ to him, and he gets his work done. That’s the heart of the matter, doing the correct job instead of—

Instead of being stared at by the two girls at a cubicle nearby, winking and curling their fingers, like _come here_.

Jensen sighs, exhale blows a puff against the back of Sophia’s hair as she walks by, pulling her iPod out of her shoulder bag.

“Jared? What’s up?” Off his defeated look and the closed door, she cuts him off by adding, “Chris turn down your idea again?”

Jensen moves away from his place at the door, scratching the back of his head. Jared’s hair is long and messy in his fingers, curls at the back of his neck. “…Yeah, again.”

Sophia breaks into a smile and says, “C’mon, let’s get some lunch,” and they’re off to Ellen’s Stardust Diner, Chad offering his take on the situation as he attacks his sandwich with zest.

“Look, Jay, you’re not gonna get anywhere with Chris,” Chad says over lunch, mumbles around a mouthful of whatever’s leaking out of his sandwich, meat and…more meat, covered in sauce. Jensen sits a little stiff across from Chad and keeps his sunglasses on, less of an issue of having ‘Jared’ look cool than it is to cover up his disgust at Chad’s eating habits. Chad licks his lips and wipes his mouth with a napkin, adding, “You’re not some ass-kissing intern anymore to turn in any ideas, get it?”

“You’re completely fine with having no input, Chad?” Jensen asks over his Philly Cheesesteak and fries. “Whatever it is, you’ll just do it.”

“Sure. Why not?” Chad shrugs. “Two words: spring break.”

He grins and leans back in his chair as Sophia takes a bite of her chicken salad. “You haven’t exactly been complaining in the past.”

“Maybe I should have been!”

“Dude.” Chad straightens, all food induced lethargy gone. “They’re, like, fixing you up with your own show and everything. Don’t fuck that up.”

Jensen takes off the sunglasses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Meaning I stay quiet and let everyone else do all the work. Without giving my opinion.”

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Sophia responds, stealing some of his fries with her fork. “That’s what they’re there for.”

And _oh_ , he’s got a _lot_ of stuff to talk to Jared about later.

*

Jared gets dirty looks on the way to work at the West Side office when he leans and smirks at the girls on the train near him. It's another sign that Jensen's body is _defective_ , because he gets these threats, like, “You eyeing my Danielle? You fuckin' fag, I'll cave in that pretty face.”

Angry subway passengers aside, whatever status that Jensen declares himself to be, looks like it really is out in the open. There’s a couple of cute female co-workers though, if Jared was into any of them and wasn’t already in a relationship—

He isn’t. They _broke up_ , Jared reminds himself. Gone. Over. Only with the opposite bodies as leftovers. Or baggage.

Jared looks down at Jensen’s mug of coffee and thinks he’s discovered why Jensen can only have one cup in the morning. Any more—Jared’s on his third one now—and he feels too big for his skin, attention bouncing off the walls of his brain. He's restless too, full of disinterest and disappointment. Disinterest in the work and disappointment in the way people treat him. From the laughs they're giving him and the way they're patting his shoulder, calling his flirting cute, it's pretty clear that they think the smarmy act is a nice joke and _it’s a little early for April Fool’s, Jensen_.

Jared’s not going to dwell on it. At two ‘o clock he uncrosses his legs, feet up on the corner of his desk. Jared pushes Jensen’s floppy hair behind his ear and smiles.

He’s taking a personal day off. To decompress.

He tells Steve that, who nods after a moment of surprise—like Jen’s never done it before, probably hasn’t—and asks, “is it okay if I change a couple of words in your article? Make it more punchy?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever floats your boat,” Jared says, pulling Jensen’s blazer on. “I’m out, dude.”

Jared doesn’t stay long enough to hear Steve’s goodbye. Two trains and a handful of stops later, he’s at his hairdresser’s salon and grinning as he steps inside.

*

The apartment Jared rents has two bedrooms, a ton of artsy furniture and wall decorations, dog toys, electronics, magazines, CDs, and clothes, all smack dab on Ninth Avenue, off Columbus Circle. It’s not big enough to be a loft, but it’s not like Jared needs it to be—it serves its purpose as a roof over his head, a place to relax with his dogs, his music, a six pack of beer and a large pizza. For all the time Jared says he’d rather be out on the town, Jensen thinks that privately, Jared’s perfect night is spent at home, warm and full. Ordering out—kitchen all steel and immaculate, not that he’ll use it—and maybe even playing a little XBOX or Guitar Hero after watching whatever sports game is on. That’s his ideal night. Not clubbing.

Jensen knows this like the back of his hand, all the little quirks, likes, and dislikes that Jared has—one year’s worth of knowledge.

Except you take all that and twist it around to have _his_ body being used by Jared, sprawled on the couch with one leg up, box of half eaten pizza on the coffee table, and Sadie resting her head on Jared’s calf.

That’s normal for Jared. What isn’t normal is Jensen’s first glance, which includes the top of Jared’s— _Jensen’s_ —head, hair newly short.

Jensen comes by around the couch, fingers digging into the strap of his bag as Jared nods at him blearily, wearing a tight black t-shirt and jeans. It isn’t that dramatic a change but he looks _different_ , off balance in Jared’s sprawl and zoned out stare at the blaring television.

“Man, I miss myself,” Jared says, nodding at the repeat of TRL he’s got playing off the TiVo, talking to whatever pop or rock band it is, Jensen doesn’t know, only that Jared looks like a giant standing next to them, easily more than a foot taller than each. “I can’t even go get drunk, you’re such a lightweight.”

“Jared,” Jensen starts slowly, gritting his teeth and letting his bag and jacket fall to the floor with a slight noise. “You cut my hair.”

“Yeah. I did.”

“We agreed not to do anything like that—that _I_ can’t cut your hair.”

“Oh, that’s because of my contract,” Jared says with a shrug, running a hand back and forth over the soft sandy brown bristles. “I haven’t had my hair this short since I was a kid. Looks good, right?”

“You _cut my hair_. Short.”

Jared rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Jen, don’t be such a pussy.”

“Why aren’t you wearing my glasses?” Jensen already thinks he knows the answer but he'd really… rather have it be anything but that.

“Contacts. Turns out it’s like wearing glasses. On your eyeballs. Want to see me take them out?”

“Did you do any work today?” Jensen asks, ignoring Jared, his tone clipped. He taps his bag with a foot, Jared’s notebook and his own folder of research papers sticking out of it. “Or were you playing _Halo_ while I was out making a fool of myself in front of your boss, trying to bring up some of the stuff you mentioned in your notes?”

“Didn’t work, huh?” Jared asks. “Chris is such a hard ass. They’ll give me a show, sure, but I’m just the face, not the brains.”

Jared mumbles under his breath, wriggling to lay on his side. Sadie scoots away as he turns, and Jensen takes the opportunity to turn the TV off, throwing the remote down on the other couch.

“Hey, I was watching that!”

“I’m working for the two of us, Jared,” Jensen says, running his hand through his hair as Jared struggles to sit up, afternoon daze slowly evaporating as he gets his bearings. “Little bit harder than _one_ , since now I have to contend with getting shot down for a job I could do in my _sleep_.”

Bad move, there, because Jared stands up and even if he’s a few inches shorter than Jensen at the moment, his body is taut and at attention, clothes unfamiliarly tight on Jensen’s body. It’s not like Jensen’s checking himself out because God knows he doesn’t need everything to be all fucked up further, but there’s that displacement kicking in. The way Jared carries himself, tall and posture straight and relaxed at the same time. Like he’s too big to contain himself in Jensen’s body, in his _own_ body, too huge a personality, too eager. Jensen looks down at his own body, its defiant posture both poised and relaxed, at the hips, and it’s almost like a stranger’s looking back at him. The haircut certainly helps that.

“You think this is easy?” Jared asks, waves his palms out. “It’s not sitting around in libraries looking at articles about things you’ll never see up front or do, Jen. _I’m_ the one doing investigative journalism. Your job’s easy, dude, you don’t even _do_ anything.”

“Maybe because I’d rather spend my day researching than flirting with everyone in the office,” Jensen grits out, beyond exasperated, rubbing his forehead. It’s a little odd to do it, the way Jared’s hairline and _hair_ is, and he’s all too aware that he hasn’t shaved for the past two days—under duress, from Jared—and that his body looks and might smell like a Yeti. “Or coasting by on my looks!”

 _Shit_.

Jared glares and comes up close, nostrils flaring in that way he does, except it’s Jensen’s face and man, he has a lot of freckles. He opens his mouth and hesitates. before saying, “All I have is _this_ , this right here.”

He thumps a hand on Jensen’s chest, fingers splayed out, as he pokes for emphasis. And then his hand goes up to the side of Jensen’s face, thumb running over the corner of his mouth, his faint mustache.

“Dude. I think we should have sex.”

 _That_ , there, that was something he didn’t expect. A week or two ago, a month ago and he’d have rolled his eyes and _maybe_ agreed with the lame come-on, but the whole thing changes when it’s Jared’s eager expression on Jensen’s face. Excitement emphasized in the way his eyes light up, the crinkles at the corners of Jensen’s eyes, and Jared’s ability to make him grin and show off all his teeth, white and dazzling.

It’s more than a little past crazy and disorienting, edging towards overwhelming when Jared’s mouth immediately crushes against Jensen’s, how Jared’s tongue slips in, soft and exploratory against the roof of Jensen’s mouth. _Beyond_ overwhelming, because if the sex comment wasn’t one thing that threw him for a loop, _this_ certainly does, so his eyes are open the whole time and he can almost count his own—really long, _interesting_ —eyelashes.

Jared pulls away with a wet smack, barely moving, lips red and wet against the side of Jensen’s mouth. He mumbles, “For research.”

“That isn’t an excuse—” Jensen exhales and snorts when Jared cuts him off, presses against his mouth again. The movement’s too uncoordinated and sloppy, Jared’s body staggering and angling against Jensen’s. They’re caught between the coffee table and the couch, the space too tight for two tall men, the dogs looking up at them lazily. Jensen hums and angles his head a little, a soft kiss that has him sucking on Jared’s lower lip before he pulls back.

“We could be the first—Jensen, we could be the first and only people in the world to do this,” Jared says, words that slur as he grabs the back of Jensen’s head and shoves his mouth against his, _again_ , fingers twining in his hair, words jumbled and heated between messy kisses. “It’s for… the greater good… scientific discovery and—and…”

“Your dick?” Jensen volunteers, his eyebrow quirking, brushing at the bangs that get in his eyes.

“ _Your_ dick,” Jared counters when he pulls back. He sighs. “Look. Look, you’re too tense. This’ll… This’ll help you _relax_. You've got to loosen up, man, you’re going to give me wrinkles. _Everywhere_.”

Before Jensen knows it, Jared is up close again, the unfamiliarity of having his own face in his field of vision still unnerving. His shorn hair takes some getting used to, soft buzz cut as Jared bends, not looking up. Jared runs his hands down Jensen’s arms, murmuring, “Like _this_.”

Like he’s patting him down, or—or, _fuck_ , Jensen isn’t used to this, hasn't been for a long while. Jared’s taking it _slow_ , like he’s mapping out his body all over again, which is even weirder since it’s _Jared’s_ body. But he’s doing it all the same, running hands down the length of his arms, sides, belly. He stops at his waist and grabs his hips, shifts them just so.

“Hey!”

It’s the only protest Jensen can manage before groaning, Jared pressing into him, hard.

“ _Here_. It’s all focused here,” Jared says, rough and low, odd coming from Jensen’s mouth. Off Jensen’s raised eyebrows, he adds, “Not like _that_.”

Jared rolls his shoulders, and adds, casually, “I can teach you a couple of things about this body. Don’t you want to find out how it is from this end?”

Jared starts leading Jensen into the bedroom, finger wrapped tight around one of Jensen’s belt loops. It’s a trick question, torture, because Jensen, ever curious, _does_ want to find out.

*

First things first: Jared is aware that he’s in a body not his own, a body that comes with its own quirks and problems. Better check the transmission before you lay money down on that used car. Except here, Jensen is not used— _that_ much, and hey, he’s _never_ been test-driven by the female section of the population—no, he’s not used up. He’s in the prime of his life, top shape. Little different in body height and weight and whatever; Jared is aware of the bend of Jensen’s arm, the ways his body goes slack, the softness of his mouth and the pulled muscles, twinge in his kneecap. He’s aware.

He’s also aware that Jensen’s got a dick too, and it’s pretty friggin’ wonderful.

Not like he went first chance he got and took hold—heh—of using it, because he _has_ , many times, only not from this end. It’s Jensen’s dick and Jensen was twisting Jared’s face into these weird and dorky expressions on top of _making them switch bodies_. So he felt more like yelling and shaking him rather than take up the celebratory charge and jerk off.

But it was going to happen, he’s only human, and it did.

(Repeatedly. Fifteen different times.)

The fifteenth time was just an hour before, but now they’re sitting sideways on Jared’s bed, and Jensen sticks his puckered mouth out, eyes screwed shut, looking for all the world like a nerdy sixth grader. Jared’s tongue meets nothing but closed teeth and dry lips, his mouth trying to push and prod.

His hands go up on either side of Jensen’s face, thumbing his sideburns, his soft, long hair brushing the back of Jared’s hands. It doesn’t tickle, but it does feel _weird_ , made even weirder with Jensen’s eyes being wide open, hazel and surprised.

Jared pulls away after a few seconds, frowning. “What, my breath smells bad?”

He huffs onto his hand and smells it, detects nothing other than pizza breath. Take away a man’s body, fine, but you can’t take away one of his favorite foods, diet or not.

“No. It’s weird from this end,” Jensen says. He looks like the cogs in his brain are turning, and then he says, “I didn’t know I looked like that when I kiss. Never mind.”

Then he gets all puckered up again, forced plumping of his lips having little effect when Jared’s are so thin in comparison. It makes him look like he’s twelve, all eager, confused, and awkward. Older than that, fifteen, maybe. On that little, thin boundary, too innocent and immature for his own good, bravado piled on to make him seem older than he was. There’s a mix of teenage and adult in Jensen’s posture and body, an awkward kid and this… less awkward and a little more mature man.

Jared thinks it also makes his own body look like an idiot when he’s kissing.

Jared sighs and leans back, rubbing his palms down his thighs. “How about we do something else?”

“Oh.” Jensen looks disappointed for a moment, before he straightens and nods a little too much. He coughs. “Yeah, yeah, that’s a good idea.”

Jared rolls his eyes when he sees Jensen sitting all stiff, cramped, unsure.

“Tell me something that gets you off,” Jared says, leans ever so slightly in Jensen’s direction, breathes against the flushed skin of his neck and jaw. His long hair moves by his chin, and Jensen shrugs Jared off, furrows his brow.

The “what?” he offers, is shaky, rushed, throat swallows dry. Jared knows this, eyeing the bob of his own Adam’s apple, rubbing his thighs again. His palms are sweaty and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s beginning to look like a disaster—the whole _thing_ was a disaster from the start, but it’s been days and days cooped up tense in Jensen's skin.

And _shit_ , if Jensen feels like this all the fucking time, no wonder he’s been angry—

“There’s this one,” Jensen starts, mouth barely open. “It’s you and me, and—and you’re spread out under, your back, all tense, and then you relax. You turn over for me. And then I’m—I’m straddling you and…”

His voice fades a little, clears his throat when Jared says, “Yeah?” and edges closer so their thighs touch, their shoulders, too. “Then?”

Jensen’s eyes are closed, more out of habit than nervousness, as he continues, “And I dig my knees into your sides, get your hair between my fingers and _pull_ as I, uh, as I ride you.”

It isn’t so out there that Jared can’t imagine it. They switch up, hell, they do it—or used to—everywhere, beds and floors, public and private. But he’s always liked Jensen over him, the way he bites his lip as he holds on, adjusting. Jensen’s dick in his ass, man, it’s never _not_ been good, and the sight of him, hair sticky on his forehead, Christ.

It isn’t too out there, Jared thinks, his hand moving to rest on Jensen’s thigh. His fingers curl around the bend and rub against Jensen’s crotch, one finger pressing up against the zipper as Jensen continues.

“Then I take out the bridle and uh—”

Jared’s eyes widen and his fingers clench as he bursts out laughing. Unfortunately, he’s halfway through unzipping Jensen’s jeans and he _might_ be responsible for Jensen groaning as Jared cups his dick accidentally from the rapid movement.

“ _Jared_!” Jensen growls, trying to be heard over Jared’s loud laugh, the kind that makes him teary. Except he’s _laughing_ because dude, what the _fuck_ , and where is this _coming_ from?—and he says that out loud, he thinks, between giggles—gasping for air as his stomach clenches and he falls back on the bed, almost rolling in laughter.

“Oh my _God_ ,” he breathes out, trying to keep his mouth shut, but another burst of laughter comes out when he sees Jensen’s stony face. Or rather, _trying_ to do a stony face, because Jared’s stony face is more like a pout, made childish with the long bangs sticking to his forehead.

Jensen gets up and leaves with a huff, Jared calling out after him between fits of giggles.


	3. Chapter 3

They’re at a restaurant on 1st Avenue, two days after the Incident, a spot of memory in Jensen’s brain that may rank higher on the embarrassing scale than the time Jared caught Jensen in the bathroom a few days before that.

It’s not jerking off that he’s caught doing—Ground Rule Number whatever , privately crossed off by both of them—that Jared walks in on.

It’s Jensen standing naked in front of the mirror trying to figure out why Jared’s dick veers to the left, while his goes to the right.

 _That isn’t defective_ , Jared had said with a smirk as Jensen turned red from his neck to his hairline.

They’re not talking about that or Jensen’s own sex fantasies right now, because this? This is a business meeting. Technically, it’s a Sunday brunch disguised as lunch, but Jensen chooses to view it as a business meeting.

Denial goes best with margaritas or that’s what Jared convinces him when Jensen finally agrees to speak to Jared beyond monosyllables, still mortified from having overshared his _fantasies_ with Jared.

“I think your eyes are defective,” Jared says as he rubs at the corner of one eye, his mouth twisting into a half-grimace, half-yawn. All together the effect makes Jensen look defective in a whole bunch of ways, which is especially awesome when they’re in a restaurant together, seated by the window.

“That’s why I wear glasses,” Jensen says slowly, as if explaining this to a child. The comparison’s not too off because Jared keeps making these weird, prissy shapes with his mouth, licking his lips to and fro as he sucks his teeth. “Quit it—quit doing that! And stop rubbing my— _your_ eye.”

Jared twists his mouth into a frown, Jensen’s lips looking all stretched. “The contacts feel funny.”

“Then you shouldn’t have gotten them. They’re too much of a hassle, you have to keep them from drying out. That’s why I never—” Jensen stops, glass up in the air as Jared starts to down an entire huge glass of beer in one gulp, chugging it down like it’s frat party night. He burps loudly and licks his teeth again, eyes half-lidded, and overall, he looks pleased.

Jared nods down at his plate. “The cilantro tastes like soap. Your tongue is defective, too.”

“You keep using that word, you’ll cramp something,” Jensen mutters, taking another bite of his barbeque ribs. It’s a little hard because not only is it messy, but Jared’s body has two hunger settings: full and ravenous. Right now, he’s working with ravenous, meaning if Jared doesn’t stop twitching around, Jensen’s going to eat all of his food. And the food of the couple next to them. Maybe even glue himself to the chef’s leg in the kitchen.

“Soapy,” Jared counters, sticking his tongue out. The plate of shrimp salad sits in front of him half-eaten.

Jared isn’t twitching and grumbling as much now when the knowledge starts to settle into place. By now, Jared understands why Jensen, who, like all good Texans, complains about the lack of quality BBQ, never complains about the lack of good Tex-Mex. Jensen’s tongue is anti-Spanish cuisine—anti-cilantro to be specific, as he discovered years ago.

It’s something he’s learned to live with, though Jared looks morose that he hasn’t eaten half of his meal. Jensen pushes his plate of fries across the table and Jared eagerly digs in, talking with his mouth full.

“You checked out the sites I e-mailed you, right?” Jared asks, shifting his weight in his seat. He pulls out Jensen’s cellphone from his pocket and flips it open, squinting at the screen and mumbling something about contacts and ‘old phone models’.

“Yeah. I did my research. That’s my job,” Jensen says. He shuts up when he realizes there's a smear of barbeque sauce on his bottom lip and chin; he tries to lick it off before he goes for a napkin. No use getting annoyed when he can barely eat his food decently thanks to Jared’s overzealous appetite. “I looked at a couple others, too—”

“ _Only_ use those sites I wrote down. They’re reliable. You don’t want to pull facts off of Wikipedia or some gossip blog,” Jared interjects, still squinting at the screen. “Huh.”

“Who is it?”

“Steve. Had a couple comments about the article I turned in.”

“You turned in the article I gave you, right? The one about the optical atomic clock. Nothing else?”

The french fries sticking halfway out of Jared’s mouth bob up and down as he says, “What do you think I am, an idiot?”

Jensen narrows his eyes. The feeling of hunger has not abated. Neither has his level of tolerance for annoyance. He feels like a migraine’s starting to come on.

Jared swallows down his french fries. “I might’ve added in a word or two. Or changed a sentence.”

“ _Jared_.” Jensen leans forward, his foot accidentally kicking one of the shopping bags under their table, monochrome bags with the latest designer labels and trendy outlets listed on the surface, a few hundred dollars' worth of clothing tucked away inside. He’d given Jared enough shit earlier about his small shopping spree—clotheshorse that Jared is, even with his stylists handling it, the boy couldn’t be trusted with a wandering attention span, ‘uncomfortable’ clothing, and a credit card.

“Gimme a break, Jensen. I helped ‘punch’ it up,” Jared says, punching the air lamely. “Steve would get along real fine with Chris. They just don’t know when to let our geniuses out.”

“A week in my body and he’ll think my inner genius has gone on _vacation_ ,” Jensen responds. He’s finished his meal and wipes his hands on a napkin, jerking his head to get Jared’s hair out of his eyes. Jared eased up on the ‘no babyface’ policy, so he’s clean-shaven at least, but he could still use some rubber bands.

“Funny.” Jared puts away the cellphone. “Are you paying?”

“I wasn’t the one who suggested this place.”

“That’s before I found out your mouth’s only good when it’s sucking my dick,” Jared whispers harshly, his pinched face red and comical. He digs around in his wallet and hands over his credit card with a grimace. “Your mouth's another thing of yours that’s defective.”

*

“Jenny, baby, how are you?”

Chad's arm’s already wrapped around Jared’s shoulders, pressing a hand against his chest. His gaze rakes over Jared from head to toe, from his dark boots to plain blue jeans to the black buttondown he’s working, first two buttons open, sleeves rolled up. It’s simple and casual, the new hair and clothing making him look sharp, focused.

Something that interests Chad by the looks of things, though he’s always been a little awkward around Jensen. More examples of ‘foot in his mouth’ syndrome than anything, except he gets this real weird and strained laugh whenever Jensen made a joke around him, and let’s face it, Jensen’s funny, but even _he_ would look over at Jared and raise an eyebrow, _what’s up with him?_

Jared stares at Chad pointedly, mouth taut and small, eyes squinting back. “I’m fine, _honey_.”

The comment gets lost in the hustle and bustle of the dressing room as Chad pulls away—taking notice of Jensen instead, the latest hair stylist and Kayla fussing around him. Even on her tip toes, the hair stylist can’t make a good grab for Jensen’s head, all his attempts to bend down to accommodate her getting interrupted by Kayla pulling different shirts on him.

By now Jared would’ve let a few words fly, because it’s taking too long and he’s never been patient with getting dressed. It’s not the clothes; it’s the waiting, and his attention span hasn’t increased as he gets older.

He crosses his arms and leans back against the counter, clearing his throat loudly.

Kayla glances over at him and _smiles_ , like she’s checking him out, even while she’s talking about a pair of jeans she saw in SoHo that would look fantastic on Jared’s ass.

“Word on the street is that you two are still—” Chad makes a fist, lip caught between his teeth. “—together, huh?”

Jared stares down at the fist, trying not to let his gaze look too freaked the hell out. He doesn’t even _want_ to know what the fist stands in for—but he’s not innocent enough for _that_ , not that they’ve tried it.

Naturally, the other night pops into his head, Jensen’s confession after the so-called ‘research session’. He’d never mentioned _anything_ like that before in the months they’d been together. They’d done it in different ways, different places but not anything out there—and now, Jared thinks Jensen had looked a little disappointed sometimes, something on the tip of his tongue that he never voiced. There could be real roughness in Jensen’s voice when he tries—and Jared _is_ trying that out—only it’s too rare, _special_ even to think about it on a regular basis.

Chad is still making a fist. Yeah, any lavicious thoughts go nowhere at the moment.

The sleeves of Jensen’s shirt are rolled up, tight muscles of his forearms tan and glistening as he shoves a blazer on awkwardly. He tucks in the front of his dress shirt as he says, “You could say that, Chad. If you believe the rumors.”

Jensen starts brushing his hair with his fingers, tossing a glance in Jared’s direction.

There’s a silent, tense moment as the girls drift on out, Jensen’s reassuring smile making them both break into smiles, relaxing as they leave. They don’t question his attitude, though Jared is eager to. The girls did a good job and didn’t screw up once, even with Jensen stiff and awkward under all that attention as they helped him get ready. Not _once_ , and Jensen even smiled at them—hell, they worked _quicker_.

Chad’s eyebrows shoot up and he starts to peel away. Jared reaches out and he claps a hand on Chad’s shoulder, pulling him back until Chad’s ear is right near Jared’s mouth, Jared’s voice low when he says, “I’ve got a business proposition for you. I’ll call you after the show.”

His laugh is strained as he leaves, Chad giving this dorky thumbs up before he vanishes.

Meanwhile, Jensen gives him an odd look, full on flustered as Jared moves over to him. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Only thing Jared gets to do is reach and pull Jensen’s shirt out of his pants, knuckles brushing the soft skin of Jensen’s belly.

Jensen unconsciously rubs the same spot, his waistline, his jeans later on. First week of new episodes after a small hiatus and now Jensen's being taped. Live. _Before_ the taping, he's shifting his weight from left to right foot, microphone tiny between his hands. And wow, Jared had never realized just how tiny the microphone looks in his hands.

Not even five minutes and he’s sweating under the lights, this tiny smile. His eyes look puffy and shut, like he’s squinting under the glare, under the swell of noise from the crowd, background music, P.A’s, director, and producers. Big return means big stars and musicians; big in name at least, because Jensen looks like he’s towering over the latest guest, Ashlee Simpson.

They’re not exactly hopelessly accomodating on set, but Jared knows his way around enough to score a backstage pass. He stands to the side and gives Jensen a thumbs up.

Jensen drops the squinting act and goes for full on deer in headlights when the light goes green and the camera focuses on him.

The next few minutes are a little fuzzy in Jared’s memory. Sources say it went like this:

Jensen, doing his best Shatner impression, read the teleprompter and sweated like a horse. His fingers kept loosening their grip on the microphone as he made stilted announcements of today’s act, and tomorrow’s act—it went on for a couple of minutes like that.

Then he got to the interview.

It started off well enough. They might’ve said ‘hi’ and Ashlee might've done that cute laugh and flirt that’s standard with these kind of pieces, waiting for the promo line to be fed about her next album. Hell, there might’ve been a freaking chorus line jumping in, too, Jared isn’t even sure.

Because Jensen, finally getting into the meat of the interview, said with a plastered on grin, “After your appearance on Saturday Night Live, how fond are you of hoedown dances?”

Ashlee’s patented giggle turned into a nervous laugh, swaying as Jensen fumbled with his index cards— _actual_ index cards stuffed between the given TRL ones. At least the contacts were good for something; from his spot, Jared could see Jensen’s little scribbles in the lines, bullet points and highlighted marker.

The producers were waving, and the director pointed at the prompter, too.

Only Jensen didn’t look and Jared didn’t even _want_ to know the next question he’d ask, maybe something philosophical or maybe what she'd had for breakfast.

The audience started mumbling amongst themselves as they cut to commercial.

But Jared? Afterwards, Jared remembers the half moon marks of red in his palms, fingernails digging into fists as he stares, open mouth, ten steps away from jumping on Jensen and punching his face in. Except wait, that's _Jared's_ face, and that right there is the problem with the whole damned situation.

*

Funnily enough, it’s when the argument starts that Jensen is glad he’s committed himself to exercise and a healthy lifestyle, because it isn’t until Jared starts yelling, red in the face, that Jensen gets the chance to see how he might look like if he’d have a heart attack.

Or maybe it’s hyperventilating. Jared sucks in a breath and blows out, peeking out through his fingers like they're playing some demented, angry game of peek-a-boo.

“I can’t look. _I can’t look!_ ”

Jensen though, does, his arms crossed in front of him as he leans against a wall and looks at Jared’s flatscreen TV. It’s a repeat of today’s episode on the TiVo, complete with a dead on take of Jensen’s stilted conversation, face sweaty and hair plastered to his temples.

At least the apartment’s cooler and vacant, minus the hundreds of lights and faces and a teleprompter fifteen feet away that he felt odd looking at without his glasses.

Then there’s the whole part about being on television, by himself, live, but Jared hasn’t really understood that part yet.

“I said I was sorry!” Jensen says, rubbing at one eye, mouth a thin line. “I haven’t been up on stage since high school, Jared.”

“That isn’t a stage!” Jared clamps his mouth shut, both hands going up to palm and push his hair back, like it’s long still. He’s pacing now. “All right, all right, it is, but that’s _different_. You—You made me look like an idiot!”

“I’ve never done that before, Jared. I was _trying_.” Jensen mutters at first, but then his voice gets louder. “It doesn’t help that I have to do my stuff and your stuff, too. How about you give my job a shot from now on? If you’re such a hot journalist, I bet that stuff’ll be a walk in the park!”

Jared comes to a stop a few feet away, pointing. “Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“You’re good at being obvious, anyone ever tell you that?” Jensen snaps, and his hand thrusts out as he continues, saying, “I mean, I’m _trying_ here. Dealing with people—and, and then you have to go and cut my hair and give me this _makeover_ , like. What the hell, Jared?”

“You’re always covering yourself up. I’m trying to help you!” Jared says accusingly.

“You’re only helping _yourself_.”

Jared groans, his small burst of pacing coming to another dead stop. “God, this isn’t going to work, is it?”

Jensen sighs. It feels like a shudder running through his body, an all over deflation as he shakes his head, bangs in his eyes. “Nope.”

“This, right here. It’s like—” Jared hesitates. He shifts out his bottom lip and bites the corner of it, a nervous twitch out of place on Jensen’s face. “It’s like we’re… We’re this old married couple, you and me. I keep thinking, ‘some morning, I’m gonna wake up, and you won’t be here.’ And I get happy, because I’m _me_ again, and you’re—you’re… not there.”

A moment or two passes as Jensen’s staring at the sharpness of Jared’s jaw, few days worth of stubble. He’s like this sharply dressed version of a person Jensen never was nor wanted to be—and it twists deep in Jensen’s belly to see this anger.

“Look.” Jensen rubs the back of his neck, the soft brush of Jared’s hair on the back of his hand both soothing and unsettling. “Look. If we’re going to—if we do separate, you can’t stay here. People’ll ask too many questions. You’re me now, for the time being, remember.”

“Back to upstate it is. _Awesome_ ,” Jared says, voice twists and has a lick of sarcasm. “We need to figure this out soon. I want my life back.”

Jensen’s already lifting up the nearest suitcase, not bothering to reply.

*

“Hey, man—Chad. Hey, Chad. I’m calling back on that proposition I mentioned the other day? After the…” Jared trails off. He shuts his eyes tight and rubs at his forehead, irritable. “Ashlee Simpson thing. Yeah.”

Chad fumbles on the other end, Jared envisioning him holding the phone between his cheek and shoulder, going through a stack of CDs and the junk that covers his office desk. Only thing neat in Chad’s office is the posters and albums spread out along the walls in neat little rows, by decorator design more than his own choice—which would be a lot of T&A, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Meanwhile, Jensen’s desk space is neat—or it was about two weeks ago, when Jared moved in. There are a few papers and items tacked up on the low divider of his cubicle: National Geographic clippings, a cheap little wildlife calendar, some photos of his family and friends, overexposed and amateur-quality. Jensen looks the same in all of them, good natured and rumpled boy next door. Only thing different might be the type of glasses he’s wearing, but he keeps up the same genuine smile, wrapping an arm around the people next to him. He isn’t the most physically touchy person around but when he’s happy, surrounded by those he respects and loves, the walls come down.

Even if Jensen’s shy in public, too tense, and too _attractive_ for his own good, all of which goes right over his head, and Jared _likes_ that. A lot. Always has.

“Yeah, yeah, you didn’t tell me what it was, Jen. I think we’re full up on hotass interns,” Chad jokes.

“No, it’s—” Jared shifts his weight in his chair, picking at his brand-new slacks. Charcoal, matches nicely with the dark blue dress shirt. Dressing up for the job isn't something he likes to do, but if he has to, he might as well make the most of it and go all out. Which means snug slacks that do wonders for Jensen’s ass. He covers his cellphone with his hand, getting a pointed look from one of Jensen’s co-workers before he turns away.

He’s hesitating, unsure of what to say on the phone. The idea he had—the proposition—deals with Jensen, only they’re not together now. Jensen’s good at singing, Jared knows. Really good. And if he could get him recorded—maybe not a full on record deal, but fuck if Jared’s gonna let a voice like his go to waste, having discovered it earlier during some downtime.

Downtime that doesn’t involve jerking off anyway.

But Jared already knows Jensen’ll shoot him down for the idea—getting Chad to help him to record Jensen—and it’s confirmed by the photos, one fussy glare from Jensen in a photo on his desk, looking like he’s staring right at Jared.

“Forget I said anything, Chad. It’s not going to work out. I don’t want Jen—Jared to have any more shit on his plate,” Jared says, free hand wandering before he starts clicking a loose pen. “How is he anyway?”

“What, you guys break up again or something?” Chad asks, then grunts. “Shit. Sorry. Dropped a stack. He’s been working his ass off, trying to make up for his freakout. They’re not letting him in front of the cameras. They think it’s the stress. You know anything about that, Jen?”

Jared exhales, the on edge feeling joined by a sick lurch in his stomach. “No, I don’t. Tell him to take care of himself, will you?”

“Tell him yourself, dude. He’ll be back from lunch in five minutes.”

“Can’t. Working. Bye,” Jared stutters, almost dropping his phone to disconnect the call. The phone clatters to the floor and he bends over to pick it up, glancing around the room.

Midday and the office is buzzing, a whole different environment than he’s used to. Backstage at MTV there are rows and rows of office cubicles but he never really stopped by to look in on what they were working on. Business stuff he couldn’t care about, most likely. His on-air job has him being dragged into meetings or hanging out in his dressing room with a bevy of stylists, friends, and the occasional guest who pops in to chat. Jensen’s office doesn’t allow those luxuries, everyone in full-on business mode. There are computers, fax machines, phones, televisions, a constant buzz of noise from technology and chatter. Papers fly and people narrowly avoid crashing into each other in the aisles between cubicles, their shadows breaking up the glare from low-slung flourescent lights. The entire pressroom floor extends for almost a full city block, and from Jensen’s desk near the window Jared gets a view of the Hudson River.

Sometimes he can spy the Empire State building if he leans back and cranes his neck up, hands in his pockets and bored out of his mind.

He sits up in his chair to see this one co-worker he keeps seeing co-worker standing near the divider, leaning over the edge. Guy in his forties with salt and pepper hair, scruffy, the kind of solid build that reminds Jared of a football player. His memory’s coming up blank for a second or two before some girl calls out, “Jeff!” and he waves over to her, then looks at Jared again.

The face clicks into place. Jeff. Sports writer. Jensen mentioned him once or twice. Might’ve introduced him at the last company party, only Jared’s memories about that are alcohol soaked.

“How you doing, Ackles?”

Jared rubs at his eye, easing off before he forgets the contacts he’s wearing. Felt weird at first but he's gotten used to it, slipping in easy like the way he’s slipped into Jensen’s body. Used to it. Comfortable.

The thought throws him off for a second before he answers, “Good, good. You?”

Jeff shrugs. “March Madness coming up. Local teams ain’t gonna win but that’s nothing new.”

Jared laughs automatically, because as much as he loves New York, he’ll still root for his own Texas teams, Cowboys and Spurs. The laugh comes automatically too, because he knows this conversation isn’t just shooting the breeze.

Jeff confirms Jared’s suspicions when he says, “You’ve been acting weird lately.”

“More so than usual?” Jared scoffs. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Jeff leans forward on the divider, arms hanging off the edge, fingers lacing together. “You look different. The girls want to know if there’s something wrong at home.”

Jared leans back in his chair. “That’s a little personal.”

“Got less personal when you started flirting with them.” Jeff scratches his head, short hair hopelessly messy. “I thought you were gay?”

His chin juts out and he’s ready to snap a reply, except there _are_ girls looking his way from the other desks. Two or three, a guy too. Jared glances at the photographs put up on the cubicle walls, recognizing some of the people in the photos as Jensen’s co-workers, the same ones who're giving him odd looks at the sudden shift in ‘personality’. He’d blurt out that he doesn’t need this to deal with on top of everything else, but they look genuinely concerned about his state of being.

“I am,” Jared mumbles, words funny in his mouth. “Yeah.”

Jeff leans in, ducking his head over the divider as Jared pulls his chair over to hear. “I don’t care about that. That’s your own buiness. Just—you got a problem, you figure it out. Get help. Ask us. We’ll help.”

He pauses, then reaches over to clap Jared on the shoulder, hard and abrupt, grinning.

“We’re going out for burritos after work at Chipotle. Want to come with?”

“Uh, sure? Sure,” Jared agrees. He smiles. “That sounds great.”

“Good. Oh, and Jensen?”

“Yeah?”

Jeff leans in again, whispering, “Next time you wanna try flirting with one of the ladies, try not to flirt with my cousin over in Marketing, will you?”

He leaves Jared beet red at his desk when Jared’s phone starts ringing then, a farewell clap on his shoulder, too. Jared scrambles to pick it up. “Yeah?”

“Jared.”

He sucks in a breath. “Jensen. Hey. Chad told me—”

“Jared, what am I looking at right now?”

Out comes the clicky pen again. “Jen—Hey, you know you’re not supposed to look at my dick at work. You’re burning daylight there.”

“Oh, so, I’m _not_ looking at the _Daily News_ site’s featured article, by Jensen Ross Ackles, comparing sex to the Big Bang theory?” Jensen says abruptly, his voice rising by the end of it. Jared squirms and opens his mouth to breathe into the phone, Jensen cutting him off. “There’s no static on the office phone lines.”

“Could be Godzilla?” Jared volunteers with a wince. He hunches in on the desk, minimizing the game windows on his desktop. “Loosen up. Got you featured, didn’t I?”

“With a tabloid-level article?”

“Tabloid-level’s better than bottom feeder level,” Jared protests. “Payback, man.”

Jensen sighs. “Okay. You win this round.”

“I’m going out for dinner later with the guys at work,” Jared says. He hesitates again, feeling like he shouldn’t have blurted it out. Their separation really _has_ been one, each staying in the other's apartment. They haven’t spoken to each other for days since then, other than a short phone call about the dogs—Jensen’s taking care of them, Jared missing them a lot.

They haven’t seen each other face to face since Jared moved out. Bringing up a dinner that Jensen is and at the same time _isn’t_ invited to seems wrong.

“Chipotle?” Jensen finally asks. Jared grunts. “Remember, no cilantro! Have fun, Jared.”

His own voice seems small on the other end. Jared unconsciously hunches over further, pressing the phone close to his ear. “Jensen… Don’t get bent out of shape. Night.”

“Night.”

He hangs up the phone and waits, steepling his fingers against Jensen’s lips.

*

The days roll by like March winds blowing in, hectic and rejuvenating. Maybe it’s the cold, but it feels like a good shock to Jensen’s system when he falls down on his ass hard, for the third time today. Playing basketball in the middle of March on a public court is supposed to get him all revved up for the championship that’s coming up soon, except he’s never been that into basketball. Football is a sport he can get behind, talking at length to Jeff at the office about different plays. The extent of Jensen’s football knowledge has always surprised Jeff, like it couldn't be possible for Jensen to switch the channel over to ESPN after a marathon of _MythBusters_.

Doesn’t matter now because he’s even if he’s in a body that could go pro, he’s getting his ass kicked by Chad Michael Murray.

Who’s too busy doing a bad set of moves proving white guys really can’t dance. At all.

“Wow. You suck today,” Chad says, offering a hand to a frowning Jensen. He pulls him up and stares, surprised. “You suck _hard_ , man.”

“I’m glad someone’s getting some fun out of my sucking,” Jensen mutters, bent over with his hands on his knees. Jared’s hair is pulled back with a bandana but his whole face feels sweaty and red. He lets out a sigh, ignoring Chad’s snickering. Even if he has gotten a good, rare look at what Jared's ass looks like slumming in shorts and a loose t-shirt, it isn’t worth getting both pneumonia _and_ a thorough ass kicking.

“You doing anything later?” Chad asks, taking a sip of his bottled water. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the inside of his shirt, bare stomach visible for a few moments. “Want to watch the game?”

Jensen peers over at him, trying to catch his breath. “Didn’t Sophia tell you? We’re having lunch.”

“Oh.” Chad pulls back a step. “What? Why?”

“Oh! Oh, it’s not like that.” Jensen lifts his hands up, placating. “I needed a favor from her. To show me some—some stuff.”

‘Some stuff’ translates into a lunch date with Sophia sipping a green tea drink as Jensen stands across the office with his back to her, eyes scanning the rows and rows of CDs on the shelves. They’re in one of the offices of the studio, and Jensen’s trying to wrap his mind around the sheer amount of pop music he’s never heard of. Other than those brief moments in high school—where he wasn’t really into the same bubblegum pop other teens liked—he’s still pretty clueless when it comes to many of these singers.

Not _completely_ clueless. He did have many a night spent over dinner and a concert DVD, Jared gesturing with air guitar as they watched.

“You want to tell me what happened the other day?”

Jensen’s gaze lifting from the CDs he’s holding. “Hey, isn’t that Hannah Montana girl Billy Ray’s daughter?”

“Yeah. And I’m just going to ignore your “Achy Breaky” love like you just ignored my question,” Sophia says. She puts down her drink near the empty paper plates and garbage of their lunch on the table. “What gives? You _never_ freak out at a taping and you were all spastic.”

“I was nervous,” Jensen tries carefully. “I’ve never—uh, I mean—”

“Is this about the rumors?” Sophia interrupts.

She waits, but Jensen stays quiet—it’s not hard to see that of course Jared’s co-workers would find out. If he and Jared don’t figure out a way to reverse the swap—if the wait for their molecules to shift back into place turns out to be bogus—then there’s going to be way more stuff that Jensen doesn’t want to handle. Like living a life in a body that’s not his, a career he doesn’t want, or, by the curious look that Sophia’s giving him, a job that he apparently sucks really hard at.

The fact that he’s here to get advice from her about how to succeed at his job—or at least, act appropriately—suddenly takes a backburner to the threat of this becoming a permanent situation.

Jensen rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe it is.”

“Because… You didn’t hear this from me, but I’ve seen the producer’s notes once or twice. Okay. Like, a _lot_ , because I look. I want to keep my job. They’re a little concerned that you’re too friendly with the guests.”

“What?”

“You might want to try not hitting on them constantly,” Sophia says with a shrug. “Just a suggestion.”

Jensen puts the CDs back, leaning against a nearby table. He fumbles a little, misjudging, almost sending a box of CDs to the floor. He’s used to his own height and breadth, but nowadays he needs to make little corrections often.

He’s ready to open his mouth and try a weak response when she cuts him off.

“Jared, are you having a tri-life crisis?”

“Oh, God.” Jensen widens his eyes. “Do you mean—what? _What?_ ”

“I don’t know! You’re like—you’re acting really weird lately. Is it something at home? Is it—it’s Jensen, isn’t it? Did you guys break up? Did you—”

“Sophia!” Jensen says, holding his palms out. “Hold on. I’m not having a tri-life crisis—”

“—a _sexuality_ crisis?”

His forehead scrunches. “I talk to you about that?”

Sophia’s eyebrows raise as a guy and girl walk into the office, moving to the opposite wall to use the photocopier. They wave and smile at Jensen and Sophia, but it’s the guy that gets Jensen’s attention. One of the interns, early twenties, trendy with tight pants and a thirty dollar shirt that looks like it’s got paint artfully splattered on it. He’s blond with blue eyes, and Jensen has to shift and uncross his legs from his leaning stance, suddenly feeling hard.

It’s like the fourth person today. _Fourth_. Or maybe fifth. A little crazy voice in the back of Jensen’s head wonders if Jared’s always like this, and God, how does he get anything done?

“Look, whatever’s going on is your own business,” Sophia says, waving a hand and ignoring Jensen’s discomfort. “But if you fuck up with one of us doing co-hosting duty, I’m handing your ass to you. On a stick.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She nods, smiling. “No problem. So, what is it that you wanted to talk about?”

“How I can make sure not to fuck up or act too friendly, I guess?” Jensen asks, heaving a sigh. He rubs his forehead, shielding his eyes—and hopefully, any response mechanism leading directly to his dick—as the guy and girl leave.

Sophia stands up and moves towards him, a foot away before he can react. Then she _leans_ in, close, breath near his ear before she pulls out a tape from the bookshelf.

“We’re gonna do some research,” she says, holding the tape out. The label on it is peeling and old, title scribbled in black marker. “You got two hours?”

It lasts longer than two hours, but Jensen comes out of the studio by the end of the day armed with a load of research: notes scribbled from tape viewings, web addresses for YouTube clips, DVD copies of interviews. Sophia tells him about all the best past MTV interviews he should look at for research, displaying a knack for interviewing and understanding of people that he’s never thought of before. He’s had his share of interviews for the articles he’s done, but it hasn’t always been face to face. Nowadays it’s phone and e-mail, so Jensen thinks it’s easy to fall into the habit of having some rusty social skills.

It’s something Jared doesn’t have to worry about, always being open and chatty.

But Jared’s not around lately. And Jensen has research to do.

*

It continues for another week without any change, other than the thought of switching back to glasses when Jared’s eyes feel dry after playing too many rounds of Guitar Hero. They're talking more frequently than the week before, but secondhand gossip still seems to reach them faster. On Jared’s end, he calls up Chad and gets these wandering tales of how great ‘Jared’ is in the office, how all the girls love him now _not_ because of how good his ass looks, but how “caring and thoughtful he is and yeah, he’s totally banging them, they never say that kind of shit to me.”

The work increases at Jensen’s job, and Jared struggles to keep up. Jensen doesn’t leave him completely in the lurch—he’ll give him his notes and research for possible topics, a full article or a nearly complete one. To ask Jared to cover for him could be disastrous for his record, they agree, but it’s not like Jensen’s letting him just turn in the work.

Jared makes sure to keep up what’s expected of him, and that includes a dinner party set for Saturday—even if the e-mails and invitations were set out weeks ago, before all this, he decides to let it go on.

It’ll be good for both their images, Jared thinks. The couple that stays friends afterwards. The regular crew pops in with a small group of Jensen’s co-workers, a clash of fashion tastes and personalities, but they all get along after a few good appetizers and wine. Jared’s apartment looks different after having been away from it; it’s still got the same artsy furniture and layout that his interior designer approved of, only some bits and pieces have moved—pushed to the side here, covered there. It doesn’t look as showy, or staged, Jared thinks. Magazines sit in little stacks on the coffee table, and the dogs' beds lie neatly in one corner, their chew toys and bones sitting in a basket.

He would have looked around his apartment more, but instead he's spent the past half hour fumbling blindly through his kitchen.

Downside of a dinner party in Jared’s place: Jensen loves to cook.

Meaning Jared’s shit out of luck figuring out how not to burn the chicken, which is currently sitting wet and pale on the cutting board.

A burst of laughter rings out behind him, everyone happy and bright around the dinner table, chatting about God knows what. He can see his own broad shoulders over the countertop, spying Jensen turn and lean back. He’s wearing a simple white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, his hair neatly combed and pushed back behind his ears. No extras, no flashy belts or wristbands. Smooth-skinned and tanned, full, healthy. He’s looked better than he has in _months_ ; not just in body but in his mannerisms, the way that Jensen exudes a stillness and focus even in another body.

Jensen tips back his wine glass and smiles, quiet and attentive when one of the girls starts speaking. They’re talking about things he feels removed from lately—grown-up things, family, friends, and business. It isn’t artificial talk that he always finds himself drawn to: favorite band, musician, actor, how could that guy think about doing that show, how could that actress be seen at that club. The kind of talk that’s always detached from his own experience, unless he’s _been_ there, ready to impress with his experiences.

A few minutes later, Chad ambles over, but he isn't so much helping as picking at the bits of chopped peppers and cherry tomatoes and eating them.

“Oh ho, Chad, I don’t think we want salmonella today,” Jensen says. His prescence startles Jared, almost makes him cut his finger with a knife by accident. Good, turn in the body sans one fingertip, the damage’ll come out of his paycheck.

Chad holds his hands up and backs off, chewing a small tomato. He leans against the countertop and watches as Mike comes in, poking through the fridge. Good thing is that the kitchen isn’t the small and cramped one typical of a lot of swanky Manhattan apartments. There’s plenty of room to move around for them all, even if Jared’s hunched over and resisting the urge to curse under his breath at the unfinished food in front of him. He’s wearing another jeans and tight t-shirt ensemble, the jeans from DKNY, the shirt from Armani, but wiping the gunk off his hands on them wouldn’t be good for the dry cleaners.

“Why don’t you crack open Ja—I mean, _my_ Dom Pérignon, Chad?” Jensen adds, swallowing down the last of his wine with a gulp. He pulls his lips up into an upside-down frown, nervous and dorky at his almost-slip. Jared glares at him, hitches his shoulder up to gesture, _come here_.

Jensen takes the hint, walking over as Chad digs in a drawer for the corkscrew.

“ _Beyoncé_ gave that to me,” Jared hisses, ignoring the way his stomach drops as he hears Chad and Mike cracking jokes and pouring the wine.

Jensen gives him his best shit-eating grin, made all the more annoying because it’s like his own face is mocking him. Wearing a low-key ensemble that shows off his biceps, no less.

“Pre-heat the oil,” Jensen grits between smiling teeth, gently nudging the bottle of extra virgin olive oil towards Jared on the counter top. He reaches past him towards the cabinet and pulls out two wine glasses, sneaking another box of seasoning down for Jared. Pressed up against the counter, Jensen’s too close for comfort, a whiff of good cologne in his wake, bangs in his eyes. He isn’t sweaty or flushed, or _flustered_ ; Jared feels a pang of jealousy at how relaxed Jensen is acting even if he’s the center of attention.

Jared on the other hand feels like an intruder in this exchange. Jensen’s moving through his own kitchen easily, fussing with things like he owns it all, like he knows—and he does, because he’s done it for months, whereas Jared's never used anything other than the microwave. With all his bustling, Jensen ends up handing half the ingredients and instructions over in whispers and gestures, helping discreetly. Jared licks his lips and nods at Jensen, _I’m okay_ , and soon enough the kitchen’s empty again. He hasn’t blown up the stove and the kitchen isn't covered in chicken pieces, so that’s good.

Maybe it was a good idea to break out the bottle of Dom Pérignon since he’s going to be late with the main course. It's also good that the bottle's out in the main area and everyone’s having a taste, Jared excluded—the laughs still keep coming, but at least now he knows the alcohol has something to do with it besides how witty and charming Jensen is.

He’s friendly with everyone at the party, just like Jared—only he laughs and compliments more easily, always showing genuine emotion and concern. Jensen doesn’t show any attitude or anger toward them, always keeping himself in check—it’s a trait that Jared doesn’t have, always letting his friendliness get the better of him, especially when it comes to his attitude. Pissing off people by accident isn’t a rare thing for Jared. With Jensen though, there aren’t any ulterior motives to his actions. Everyone’s getting along with Jensen so well, relaxing in his prescence enough that Jared’s feeling a sense of panic.

Everyone’s being so _nice_ to Jensen. Talking to him with their guards down, touching him, _easy_ , no fakeness attached.

Hell, Jensen’s doing a better job at being Jared than Jared _himself_.

Maybe Jensen’s getting along so well because it’s Jared’s body. But whatever it is, this isn’t supposed to happen. They’ve got their set roles, and this swapping throws a wrench into everything. If Jensen’s so good at being Jared, and Jared can’t even do Jensen’s—Jensen’s _life_ —correctly, then where does that leave him? Who does he get to be?

Jared starts to rifle through the cabinets, trying to figure out where the emergency stash of wine is—one bottle, one cheap-ass Christmas gift—when Danneel comes in.

She sits on the edge of one of the counters, watching as Jared looks through the cabinets. After a minute, he pauses, closing one cabinet before turning to look at her.

“Came to kiss the chef?”

“Not since college, honey,” Danneel says. She nods at him, voice low. “You look good.”

“Always do.”

She rolls her eyes and then she’s nodding in the direction of the living room. “I’m surprised you’re here. Last time I heard, you were fine with me making a woman out of Jared.”

Okay, _that_ gets his full attention. “ _What?_ ”

“You know. Harm to body parts?” Danneel shrugs, mouth a little pout. “We haven’t followed through on maiming him for being a jerk. Guess not.”

“He’s not as bad as you think,” Jared mutters. Again, the reminder that he’s in Jensen’s body comes back in full force, how this body reacts differently than his own. Even if Jensen’s more uptight than he is, he doesn’t get so easily angered over little things—it’s like he builds it up until it explodes. Jared’s nervous the dinner’s going to get fucked, that Danneel’ll see right through him, but Jensen’s body? Relaxed. Healthy and strong, _sated_ too, with all the pizza he ate earlier, figuring the meal would go to shit.

“But he doesn’t appreciate you,” Danneel points out. “Don’t forget. I still can’t believe you turned down assistant editor at the _Smithsonian Journal_ to stay with him. There’s a reason you’re in New York, Jensen, and Jared doesn’t have time on his schedule for that.”

She hops off the counter and leans up to give him a quick peck on the cheek, Jared too stunned to respond. Danneel smiles at him a little after he says he'll be there in a few minutes. “Go have fun,” he tells her.

His gaze lands on her back, her ass as she goes, and Jared curses, kicking the bottom counter.

Thing is, Jensen never told him that. If he wasn’t happy, why would he give it up? Jared thinks he himself would’ve done it easily. His reasons for moving to New York were a little more jerky than Jensen’s, who always said he did it so he could be more open than he was in Texas. Moving to New York allowed them both to pursue their careers—the brief taste of fame Jared got in winning that Teen Choice Awards contest wasn’t enough. A few years of interning wasn’t enough.

 _He_ was enough for Jensen, Jared realizes. All this time, Jensen’s always been around for Jared, always been there, _stayed_ with him when he had opportunities elsewhere. Listening and taking the stuff Jared threw at him, for a whole year—It’s been a year, the significance of it slowly sinking in. With all its ups and downs, it was mostly great, really great, and then at some point, Jared hadn’t realized he’d started walking all over Jensen and that Jensen had been letting him.

A year, and he gave Jensen a teddy bear, thinking it’d be funny.

That’s how he knows the sickening lurch in his stomach isn’t alcohol, isn’t nervousness. It’s the sad realization of the past few months hitting him right then and there.

And that Jared was too fucking stupid to figure it out until now.

Jared looks over at the guests again, realizing that if he goes to Los Angeles, he won't know anyone there. Truly know them, not just as acquaintances. There's a possibility that he'll never see or talk to these people again. And at the rate Jensen’s going, being so good at being _Jared_ , they likely won’t need Jared either.

But the night goes on anyway. The chicken doesn't burn; it gets served and eaten. They compliment the chef, and Jensen gets the most laughs out of everyone, the best host a person could ask for. When they’ve all had their fill of food, wine, and discussion, the guests start drifting off, calling cabs and getting designated drivers. They stand in front of Jared’s building at two in the morning, waving to Mike and Tom as a taxi peels away from the curb.

They haven’t been alone in what feels like ages, no warmth of food or comfort of others surrounding them, buffering the conversation. Jared breathes out a puff of cold air, his hands digging deeper into his pockets. It isn't that cold but Jensen is wearing a loose, fuzzy scarf looped around his neck twice anyway, along with a dark overcoat.

“Danneel told me you turned down the _Smithsonian Journal_ ,” Jared murmurs, keeping his gaze on his boots, dirty and battered. Dug them out of the bottom of Jensen’s closet, this bit of Texas nostalgia Jensen kept hidden.

When he looks up, Jensen sucks in a breath, wiping a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah. I did.”

No use going around it, because Jared shakes his head at him, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me? After all the times you talked about your job and… God. You could’ve—you could’ve been advancing your career! That’s the fucking point of coming here, isn’t it?”

“I didn't just come to New York on a whim, Jared,” Jensen says, looking everywhere else _but_ Jared. The empty street, the streetlamps, the way everything’s cold and wet, snow melting under orange light in the dark. “I came here to be myself and not be told every day that I'm going to hell because of it.”

Then he’s taking a step back and looking _down_ at Jared, like the height difference is plain as day, how he straightens.

“And you, you just don't want to admit it. Fine, you're not gay, because you can't even _say_ that, but you're bi, and you're more concerned about your fucking image than being honest with _yourself_. You know, I never should I have said I wanted to be you.”

Naturally—so naturally it startles him—Jared rolls his eyes, feeling restless, ready to protest.

But Jensen’s hands, _Jared’s_ hands, still him, close and grabbing his shirt. He breathes steadily, swallows, another breath. The closeness is unsettling, and then Jensen _pokes_ him, right in the breastbone as he grips.

“Did you just poke me—”

“ _Listen_ to me, Jared,” Jensen growls, and that—that’s fucking _scary_ how it gets him to attention, in more ways than one. It’s his own body but in Jensen’s control, it’s a fucking weapon, focused and controlled. Jensen doesn’t need any extras to show he’s older or mature; the determination he has is ever present.

“For once, in the entire time we've known each other,” Jensen says, low, “Just listen to me. And then you know what? You don't ever have to listen to me again.”

Jared wants to say something _now_ , defend himself and curse, but he’s too stunned to react. Jensen uses Jared's hands so well, smoothing over Jared, stilling him.

“I hope you have a great life being the greatest asshole in the world but maybe that doesn't work for me,” Jensen says, his eyes locked. “You know those care packages my mother sends me? That's the only contact I've had with my mother since I came out to her and my… My dad. I don't go home for the holidays. I've got a family here, I've got people who care about me here, Jared. And you're not one of them. You never were. I was just too in love with you to admit that to myself.”

Jared opens his mouth, has to say something but Jensen's there first, with a kiss that's salty on the lips and deeper on the tongue, with a bitter touch of wine.

He could lose himself in this kiss, _really_ could, never wanting it to end. Because his hands go up, independently of his brain, cupping Jensen’s face. Thumbing his cheekbones, the ridge of his brow. Jensen is warm and broad against Jared’s chest, a warmth he drinks in, _desperate_.

Then—because it has to—it comes to an end.

With Jensen’s lips trailing the curve of Jared’s stubbled cheek, soft breath against his ear.

“I'm not afraid of losing you, Jared. _I_ never had you.”

He leaves Jared at the curb there, too dumbstruck to react. Jensen becomes nothing but a dark shadow that goes back into the apartment building, strong and firm. Jared gets a glance of his coat and broad shoulders before the doors hide Jensen from view.

The street’s still empty, passersby here and there.

This time it’s not just the alcohol getting to him when his knees give out. He knows that, in the back of his head.

 _It’s not just that, it’s something more_ , except that’s when he passes out.


	4. Chapter 4

Afterwards, Jensen’s walking through the foyer, through the living room, distracted and high-strung.

His coat goes down, and he does too, on the couch, legs spread wide. He doesn’t stay sitting long because Jared’s body is a drug, this euphoria washing over him. Jensen can _get_ why Jared’s always out at parties, late, schmoozing and having a good time. Because the alcohol’s settling in his body now, _good_ , a flushed heat that leaves him breathless and _aware_. This body handles it differently than his own; he isn't a lightweight now (or not a lighweight in Jared’s world, where drinking is a marathon that lasts hours as opposed to getting slightly toasted within an hour’s time).

Most of all, Jensen’s spiralling, too, feeling like for a moment he finally did what he meant to do in New York, like he's finally letting himself _be_ himself, whatever that is. To say what he’s always known and he is _not_ thinking about that look on Jared’s… _his_ , whatever, his face.

He’s not thinking for a moment that maybe, he was a little too hard, no, because Jared's had this coming, right, isn’t that what Danneel always tried to tell him?

He stops thinking about it. Instead, he goes and opens up Jared’s liquor cabinet and skims his fingers— _Jared’s_ fingers—over the expensive bottles of wine, maybe this one’s a gift from Madonna or something, and he decides, announcing to Harley and Sadie when he lets them out of the second bedroom, “It’s time for tequila.”

And music. Jared's got a lot of music too, but he needs familiar music. There aren’t any vinyl records or tapes in Jared’s ridiculous collection, it’s all electronic or CDs, and nothing familiar. But Jensen’s on a mission and wow, the tequila is _amazing_ , so he has no reason to give up. It’s about ten minutes of punching buttons on Jared’s ten thousand remotes for his stupid entertainment center before Jensen finally figures out how to get the iPod to work in sync with the surround sound system.

The song that comes on is awful and unfamiliar but that isn’t surprising.

“Hey, Sadie,” Jensen says, crawling on the ground next to her, growling affectionately, rubbing her ears, “I forgive you for always licking me in my sleep. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

She doesn’t answer, which sucks because that would be kind of awesome, because then he’d be like the _Dog Whisperer_ and not just someone who woke up one day with the amazing power of switching bodies with his asshole ex-boyfriend.

Sadie backs out of Jensen’s hands, shaking him off and hunting behind the sofa, uncovering that stupid white Valentine’s bear—the _break-up bear_ —and hightailing it back to the bedroom, Harley following after her.

Whatever. He needs to turn off this Umbrella song and put on some real music. Scrolls down Jared’s list of artists and, “Johnny Cash! Oh thank the lord.”

The first song is one that Jensen doesn’t even think he’s heard before, but he puts it on because there can’t be some person out there with Johnny’s name and not be “ _The Man in Black_ ”. It starts off familiar, but Cash’s voice is older and Jensen doesn’t know why but he’s slumped down next to Jared’s pointy coffee table, the hard edge poking him in the back, tequila bottle clutched in his outstretched hand.

He’s totally not _thinking_ about anything right now. Or like, anything at all. Just, thinking about patterns and Occam’s Razor. The simplest solution is the answer. Not the complicated story where maybe he _and_ Jared screwed up, couldn’t get it working because they were scared and stupid and maybe were kind of freaking in love and didn’t know how to deal with it—

Jensen’s never been in love before.

He takes a long pull off the tequila bottle. And hopes he won’t regret that in the morning.

Sad songs and tequila don’t mix at all and it’s a relief when “Hurt” finishes, Jensen screwing his eyes shut, trying to push the pounding out of his mind.

Then the next song comes up, another one he’s not familiar with, and he crawls back over to the stereo, wavering a little as he tries to read the screen. _“Rusty Cage” (Soundgarden)_ but it’s clearly Johnny Cash singing.

Jensen had no idea Johnny Cash was in Soundgarden too. Huh. Maybe the music industry isn’t completely vain and meaningless.

By that time, Jensen’s kind of giggling but he’s not alone, the dogs are there.

“You guys are _awesome_ ,” Jensen says as Jared-ly as possible, full on smarm and attempting to wink only it makes him dizzy and he kind of falls over.

Jared does not have a mythic alcohol tolerance. If Jensen hadn’t given Jared the big fuck-you kiss off, he’d so call Jared up to mock him. _Jared_. Damn it. He needs to keep drinking. And see if Jared’s got “Cocaine Blues” on his magical iPod. He think he might see “Folsom Prison Blues” listed farther down.

He’s also standing, which is great. Jensen doesn’t think crawling around, even when you’re alone, is something to be proud of—and then there’s the door buzzer.

Whatever, let ‘em up, Jensen needs some company. Misery, no, _victory_ , needs company and—

Jensen opens the door to Sandy.

“Heeeeey,” Jensen says.

“Hey, Jared,” she says with a tiny grin as she plays with the hem of her jacket sleeve. She looks up. “I left, um, my purse?”

Jensen knows that she wasn’t at the dinner party. And she’s really dressed up: a glittery sheer black dress under her jacket; it’s really shiny and kind of distracting but she’s smiling bright. Like, really bright.

“You have a purse,” Jensen points out, his hand almost brushing a little too close to her side, uh—almost, _possibly_ brushes her breast.

“Jared!” Sandy laughs. “This is just a Coach purse. I left a Louis Vuitton here, remember? A month ago? I texted you, didn’t you get my message?”

Jensen does not remember. Jared might have forwarded some of his texts and e-mails to Jensen but Jared’s kept his iPhone and Blackberry with the kind of single-minded determination of true addicts. So, no, Jensen has no clue. But then, he also doesn’t know why Sandy’s leaning up towards him, all smiles and then says, “Jensen's not here?”

Jensen _is_ here. Technically. Jensen’s still stuck on the fact that Sandy has a real nice smile. Like, wow. And Sandy’s like, really, _really_ nice.

And Jensen? He’s really, really drunk.

Jensen’s awesome right now, too. He starts laughing after her question and by the time he’s done, he doesn’t know what she said, but man, it was pretty damn funny.

“Jared? Jensen’s not here?”

“Ja-Jensen? Jensen's… really drunk. Bad drunk. Sent him ‘off.” He waves his hand a little and his body almost follows the motion, slipping into the hallway, he has to steady himself by clutching the doorway, nodding for emphasis. “Come on in, Sandy, come right on in. You want some tequila? I think we deserve some tequila.”

He might nearly trip over an ottoman, but Sandy grabs him, and they twirl, unintentionally, until she lands on him, a light thump on his chest.

“Hey there,” Jensen chuckles, pushing the messy perfect hair away from her face, cradling it. “How we’d get down here?”

“This is where we should be," Sandy says all of a sudden and _oh my God_ , his body’s _reacting_. It’s almost painfully obvious, he thinks, trying to adjust himself underneath her. That’s funny, too, and Jensen would laugh but then like, Sandy's hand is brushing his stomach and that feels—it feels _good_.

“Oh,” Jensen says and maybe, maybe he should, like… stopping would probably be… be good.

“Remember when we did body shots at that resort in Antigua?” She smiles again, her tongue peeking out between her teeth. “Do you have any limes?”

“Um,” Jensen begins, tries to say _no I don’t remember, because I’m not Jared and oh my God, what are you doing?_ But Sandy darts out of his hands, pulls his shirt up, tongue brushing at the top of his belly button. He can't help but shudder and then her hand's skimming down, unbuckling him, and her hand's at his fly and—

 _Fuck Jared_. Fuck him so, so much, because it's just Jared's body responding to direct touch. Fuck, Jared probably _does_ walk around half-hard all day and now, Jensen's hard and aching and Sandy’s… Sandy’s real good with her tongue, licking a path down his stomach.

Jensen’s mind is almost gathering together and he's about to stop this before it goes too far but then Jensen remembers that he didn’t bother wearing underwear because Jared’s is just all silk and ridiculous. Then his jeans are undone and, uh, pretty much the moment Sandy’s mouth is wet and _licking_ him he goes, “Ughhh—oh, _oh_ , ohgodohmygod”—only _more_ embarrassing than that.

And then whatever thoughts he has in his head die and all that’s left is _don't stop_.

*

_Never_. That’s how many times Jared has been dumped in his entire life. And the one time he effectively gets shut down, it’s by Jensen Ackles. So Jared’s unspecified Plan A, which mostly involved somehow figuring out a way for things to magically fall back into place, to get to be _himself_ again, is kind of shot.

There’s always Plan B.

Plan B, Jared reasons, involves a shitload of alcohol and hopefully forgetting every single second of Jensen telling Jared… God, he needs to forget.

Then. There’s always Plan… C.

Plan C has him hanging off Chad, jacket hitched up around his shoulder and neck, an odd angle as he jabs his key in the door lock. They get inside Jensen’s apartment, the place just as tiny and messy as ever. Chad closes the door behind him, standing like he’s waiting to be praised, his arms out like Jared’ll fall into them.

Good move, because he does.

“You going to pass out on me again, Jenny?”

“Shut up,” Jared slurs. His chest burns from the alcohol and _more_ , a bone-deep ache that rises up just as his legs give out again.

Thank God for Chad. Chad, his buddy, his friend. Chad _saved his life_. Or at least, saved Jared from spending the rest of the night lying facedown on the street.

Chad always hits up the bars if a party ends before 2 A.M. and he must’ve seen Jared, uh, _Jensen’s_ body, but hey, it’s Jared all the same. He’d prodded the awkward mess that was Jared with his shoe, waking Jared from his stupor when he’d bent over, blowing cigarette smoke right in Jared’s face, mumbling, “You alive?”

Yes, Jared’s alive and in hell. A hell where too many people think he’s a jerk and where stupid Jensen has Jared’s body and he’s going to _die_ in Jensen’s body, probably due to alcohol poisoning.

It was a long, long cab ride, with Chad attempting to massage Jared’s shoulders, telling him stories that Jared already knows, about how Chad met Jared, only they were _different_ , a skewed perspective. Jared would rather spend the night puking in a gutter than listen to Chad saying, “Jared wasn’t always like this, you know. He was a good guy. I mean, he’s still cool. But you get what I mean.”

Jared’s kind of disgusted at himself for nodding in agreement.

So, now they’re at Jensen’s apartment, with Jared resisting the urge to throw up on Chad’s shirt.

Chad hoists him up, hand wavering over Jared’s ass like he’s thinking twice about carrying Jared over to the bedroom. “Come on. We’re getting you to bed, Jen.”

He settles for throwing Jared’s arm around his shoulder again, tugging him along down the narrow hallway, past Jensen’s dresser, tiny framed pictures, bookcase of textbooks. It’s all neat and cozy, and the nausea settles to a low thrum of a headache as they wander past.

Jared falls face first on the bed when they reach it, slowly dragging his stubbled face against cotton sheets. The unfamiliar texture of the bed is disorienting; so is Chad with his jacket off, shirt unbuttoned.

“Hey there, Jenny. You gonna blow chunks or something?”

Jared has to laugh a little, which kicks his headache up a notch.

“I’m gonna be fine. Room ain’t spinning,” Jared slurs, amazed at how Jensen’s tongue gets all thick with Texas, almost as bad as when Jared’s really trashed. Jared is drunk, but it’s not his voice. It’s stupid _Jensen’s_ , all gravely and hot and making him remember: the slick heat of Jensen’s mouth biting down where shoulder meets neck. Because Jensen, he used to make this crazy noise that was just… just real _nice_.

Jared shifts his hips as his dick hardens, not comfortable belly-down on the mattress any more.

“Hey buddy, you wanna help me here?”

“Oh, yeah,” Chad says, a weird bubbly edge to his voice. “I’m all about helping.”

All those times Chad’s said to Jared regarding tasks at the studio, _fuck that shit. Let the interns deal with it_ , notwithstanding.

Chad gets on the bed on his knees, and then he rolls Jared over with one hand. Jared wouldn’t mind just crashing, a long nap where he’d wake up and find out that this was just the worst dream ever. But then it would mean he hasn’t woken up for weeks and unless he’s living in some _Vanilla Sky_ nightmare, and that would suck.

The one where Chad keeps on murmuring _Jenny, Jenny_ , brushing his hand over Jared’s face, trying to get Jared to focus on him. Jared would rather _not_ focus but then he notices that Chad’s rubbing the medallion he's wearing with two fingers, kissing it.

“I wore this the first time I met you, remember? When you and Jared hooked up?” Chad says, hands wandering south and Jared would put a stop to it but he figures, why the fuck not? It’s not like Chad’s ever gonna believe he’s Jared. It’s Chad’s ridiculous _get laid_ medallion that Chad picked up at Spring Break ’05. Hasn’t gotten him any luckier than Chad normally is just being The Chad.

“You’re always wearin’ it,” Jared says and laughs because Chad looks so freaking earnest, his eyes squinty and serious, brushing Jared’s stomach, where his shirt rode up a little, exposing skin. “Man, you wanna fuck me, don’t you?”

It’s bold and bare, laid out the way Jared’s always been. It should be a hint but Chad just smiles and breathes gin and cigarettes into Jared’s face, “Yeah I do, Jenny.”

With that, he starts to strip off Jared's jacket and shirt and Jared doesn’t really think about stopping, because that’s not weird even if it’s Chad and he keeps on staring at Jared like _that_. Next thing to go are going to be his pants and then there’s no turning back. See, any other time, they'd laugh about it. Clap each other on the back, joke about how drunk they are, call it a day. Any other time, when the universe wasn’t playing this huge cosmic joke on Jared.

“Yeah, that night, I hooked up with the wrong person and I know you did too. We're going to fix that… tonight.”

“I don’t think we’re fixing anything that’s broken,” Jared says, trying not to roll his eyes when Chad nearly gets stuck tugging his own shirt over his head. Good to know that Chad’s just as suave as he always brags.

“You're so pretty, when I saw those lips, couldn't believe it, hotter than girls, man,” Chad’s saying, and he half-humps Jared as he’s pulling his pants down. Then he grabs weakly for Jared’s chin and head, fingers running over the stubble under his bottom lip, rubbing at his jaw, then back up to push a finger in between Jared’s lips.

Which might’ve been hot if it weren’t _Chad_ doing it and if he were doing it _right_ , because now it’s more like… More like being poked in the mouth. Jared has to shake Chad off before Chad descends, missing Jared’s mouth by a lot. Getting kissed on the ear is _not_ sexy when it’s all sloppy tongue dancing under his earlobe, a pool of saliva dribbling down his neck.

Jared is aware that stopping would be a really good idea. It’s still not _his_ body and Chad’s his friend and Jared might have an open policy but certain people are off-limits. Only now Chad’s grabbing his ass now and thinking? Yeah, the thinking part of his brain is kind of shot. Jared’s also aware that his brain feels like death rolled over or warmed over, or _whatever_.

He half-laughs, half-groans, murmuring, “Chad, maybe we should, uh, get some sleep or—,” but Chad _continues_.

He sucks a line of kisses down Jared’s neck, awkward as all hell, murmuring nonsense against Jared’s skin as he leaves trails of saliva. “God, you’re so fucking hot. You and Jared, used to picture it— _fuck_ , baby, we’re hot too.”

The only thing Jared can think is: basketball’s never going to be the same again.

Which is probably not the kind of thought that helps Jared at all as he makes him kind of laugh a little and if Chad was sober and not _Chad_ , it might ruin the moment. Although this kind of moment isn’t really a kind of moment to remember, drunken hook-up sex.

When Chad pulls down Jared’s boxers, it hits Jared way too late and way too hard, the silliness of their situation turning real, no longer a joke, ha-ha, screwing his friend, no it’s way, way worse than that. Jensen’s words coming back to haunt him— _I never had you_ —and Jared’s experiencing that stupid, stupid moment of clarity, the slosh of his brain making a small, fragile connection, little reminder. A breath escaping that he shouldn’t lose, but then, he’s lost enough tonight, more than he ever realized before.

Jensen’s the first guy Jared’s ever fucked. The only guy Jared’s ever really wanted to fuck, because for all his past antics, he’s never gone to that point with a guy, ever, and it’s like Jensen was meant to introduce Jared to the wonderful gay side of his bisexuality.

And he’s also the last and only one so far to get a piece of Jared’s ass, by the way Chad’s acting. His hands are all over the place, poking Jared here and there, a tug on Jared’s dick— _Jensen’s dick_ —that proves that Chad’s never fucked around with a guy. Or if he has, man, Jared feels really sorry for that guy.

Jared bats Chad’s hand away, gripping it a little too hard but Chad doesn’t notice, groaning, “Jenny,” a couple too many times for comfort. “Jen, don’t be shy, baby.”

He thinks it’s beyond annoying to hear those nicknames coming out of Chad’s mouth.

Chad’s mumbling these compliments and nicknames, rumpled and _humping_ Jared until he blows his load with a drawn-out moan, sticky wetness all over Jared’s leg.

After that, Chad breathes out heavy against Jared’s neck, eyes half-lidded, slurred kiss against Jared’s neck. “Jenny-Jen-Jenny.”

God, he’s not drunk enough for this.

He pats Chad’s arm, twisting out of Chad’s arm thrown over his chest. Jared looks down at his wilting hard-on, the mess on his leg and wonders if crawling to the bathroom to throw up is a good idea. It feels like he just cheated on Jensen, which makes no fucking sense. He didn’t even get to _come_.

Chad says blearily as he licks his lips, “How’s about we start round two?”

To his credit, Chad stays awake for about ten more seconds before he promptly passes out.

And Jared?

Jared kind of doesn’t fall asleep until after he takes one of the longest and coldest showers in his entire life.

“I’m such a fucking asshole,” Jared says, but it's lost to the rush of water, the rattle of pipes.

*

Sandy’s soft, warm, and smells nice, too, a vast improvement. Jared’s hands are large and pale against her skin as she snuggles up to Jensen, snoring lightly against the skin of his chest, his dress shirt open. He stares at the ceiling and worries Jared’s lip, feels his arm unwrap around her shoulders. His arms are too big, too thick, to sleep with them tucked against his sides, but he does it anyway.

Sandy’s a vast improvement, sure. But, Jensen decides, she’s missing exactly what Jensen needs.

Which is a cock.

“Yep, still gay,” he murmurs, and even after all these weeks, Jared’s voice startles him.

*

The morning after Jared feels exactly how he expected to: hungover, with a side of ass and… pain. Thankfully, those two things didn’t go together last night. His thoughts are all jumbled and so are his clothes, having pulling on the baggiest pair of sweatpants Jensen owns and a faded old t-shirt to go with them. The wireless Guitar Hero controller only enables him in his laziness, getting scores lower than fifty percent on his early morning plays, totally blowing “Free Bird.”

He’s used to blowing it anyway on a good day, but at least those times he had Jensen around to raise an eyebrow and quietly judge him before he went back to reading a book.

 _Shit_ , shit. The last thing Jared needs is to be lying around on the couch watching TV. Next thing he knows, he’ll be eating a pizza and sleeping in until three in the afternoon.

Actually, he has done that. Huh. He's squinting at the empty pizza box on the floor when his phone goes off. The tingling ringtone and his focused stare at the box makes him think the box is vibrating.

Maybe it _is_.

Jared takes the call. “Yeah?”

There’s nothing on the other end, only a cough, then heavy breathing.

Jared groans. “Look, Chad, I was drunk and—”

“Jared?”

Fuck. _Awesome_ timing.

“Jensen?” Jared straightens, the all-over-assiness feeling getting a shot of pain and angst to go with it. He shifts his weight and ends up on his elbows, looking down the length of his belly, _bare_ , shirt riding up and showing him Jensen’s abs. Warm abs. Ridges of muscle that he used to spider walk his fingers over, and this, this is like his own personal hell.

In fact, that’s exactly it: this isn't actually happening. Jared’s probably still somewhere on the street, covered in newspapers and garbage, moaning about _Jensen Fucking Ackles_ and having delusions of… his own voice, telling him off. But then that’d mean there was no Chad to the rescue and judging by the state of the dried come on his jeans on the bedroom floor, it _did_ happen.

Jared runs his fingers through his hair, short bristles sticking up at odd angles. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know why I got some weird voicemail from Chad this morning, would you?”

Off Jared’s groan, Jensen chuckles. He sighs, long and drawn out, Jared easily imagining Jensen rubbing the back of his neck. “Forget it. I’m not going to ask.”

It’s weird because normally, Jared’s good at talking on the phone. Negotiating, shooting the breeze, whatever—it comes naturally to him, being sociable. But now, it’s fucking _odd_ , having his voice on the other end. Jensen’s voice, and that it’s Jensen _calling_ , after last night. The last person Jared wants to hear or see is Jensen, not out of anger but out of acknowledgement, because all the things Jensen said last night? They’re true.

But he still woke up and saw Jensen’s reflection staring back at him, morose and hungover. A sight of his own state of being and a sight he never wants to inflict upon Jensen, ever.

Jared charges on ahead, saying, “About last night.”

“Yeah. I, uh—Yeah, Jared. About that—”

“You were right. I have been acting like an asshole,” Jared says slowly, immediately regrets hearing the words in Jensen’s voice. “Pretty fucking good wake-up call, if I do say so myself. Since it was _from_ myself. Oh God, I’m not making any sense, am I? Never mind. It’s just that maybe I was, I’ve been. Kind of a dick. To you. And I shouldn’t have been like that. I’m sorry.”

It’s probably the worst apology ever but it eases something inside, a little piece of himself slotting back into place. It feels kind of like a welcome: _welcome to the world of being human_.

Jensen’s hesitating again, before he exhales. “Good. Because I wasn’t going to say I’m sorry. Oh shit. Um. That came out wrong. I—You know, I used to be a _journalist_ , got a degree and everything. I used to be good with words.”

“You are,” Jared says with a low chuckle. “I get it. Hey. Hey, Jensen?”

“Yeah?”

Now it’s time for Jared to pause. He has no idea if he’s even in the position to suggest this, considering what Jensen said to him. But maybe it’s time for being a damn grown-up and ignoring his own hurt, his own feelings, and try to make things _right_.

“Since I figure it’s been weeks and you’re getting as sick of my mug as I am of yours, I think there’s only one solution to this.”

Jensen laughs, the type that always has Jared grinning afterwards, even if it’s hearing his _own_ laugh back at him. “Oh God, since _sex_ was one of your suggestions, I don’t know if I want to hear this.”

“That was a good idea. Don’t knock it,” Jared says, tapping the guitar controller idly.

There’s a groan on the other line, then a shuffling noise like Jensen’s walking around the apartment. “I’m listening, Jared.”

He moves to sit up, like making decisions from a position that won’t enable passing out will do him good. It does. “Start over fresh. We keep going in different directions, we’re not going to get anything done. How about we work together?”

“…I’d like that,” Jensen says after a few seconds. “I’d like that a lot.”

*

Working together, _finally_ , isn’t as hard as Jensen thinks it will be. The first step, though, has them both meeting up in Jared’s apartment, and Jared looks like crap. He’s haggard, dark circles under his eyes when he pulls off his sunglasses, sharing a look of understanding with Jensen before the dogs bowl him over. The look fades just as suddenly when Sadie’s licking his face and he’s _smiling_ , mouthing, “Thanks.”

Calling in a few favors isn’t as hard either, maybe more awkward when Chad’s coughing on his end after Jensen calls him and says, “Hey, Chad, I think you owe me one.”

Jensen’s spared the details when it comes to that, thank God. Anyway, he can't really protest—he can protest _some_ , because what the hell, it’s _Chad_ —but then again, on his end, there was Sandy.

He calls up the girls in reception and talks with them for a while, putting on a slight touch of charm. Jared’s at the laptop sending e-mails, giving a rueful smile as he does it, even quirking an eyebrow when Jensen gets his way, easy. They patch him through without a problem and after an hour of phone calls, he’s wrangled the schedule for his own benefit.

An interview with Carrie Underwood on a Friday—it might skew a little older in the viewer demos, Jared tells him, but she’s _country_ , and Jensen thinks he can manage that. After last time, the producers were scared to put him in front of the camera again, thinking he’d cave under pressure. He’s not in the studio face-to-face with them to assure them he’ll do well, but he is face-to- _paper_ , Jared holding up notes for Jensen to look at as he speaks into the phone, talk about _being a team player_ and _being mature for the benefit of the show and network_.

That last part is kind of hard to take seriously when Jared does this horrible victory dance afterwards, complete with the Robot. In Jensen’s body.

Jensen thinks they should’ve put ‘no dancing’ in the ground rules. The last time Jensen danced was kind of never. Well, there was a season of being a high school cheerleader but he’s made sure that never _ever_ gets out because he’s pretty sure even Danneel wouldn’t let him live that one down.

“That way, you’ll alleviate any worries they might have in the future…” Jensen trails off, rubs the back of his neck. Jared’s already at the computer again, little dance coming to a standstill as he looks down at the screen.

“And _this_ way, you’ll have something else in your future,” Jared says. He turns the laptop around and stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Jensen, looking at it.

The e-mail’s a back-and-forth conversation that's taken place over _days_ , coming to a conclusion now. Turns out Jared was already working behind the scenes and setting up a correspondence with some producers, namedropping mutual acquaintances here and there. MTV’s latest mad scheme is an overhaul of the news program for young adults and they’re in need of a rotating group of interviewers for segments. From what Jensen can see, he’s sent them some of Jensen’s work and resume—but the crux of it is that they loved his recent piece, ‘Sex and the Big Bang Theory’, and want him to come in for an audition.

Jensen sighs. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jared.”

“Why not?” Off Jensen’s look, Jared’s getting hyper now, touching Jensen on the arm. He pulls away, though, realizing that it’s not like _that_ anymore. Can’t be. The warmth and eagerness in his eyes and posture remains nonetheless. “What’s the harm in trying? You can get out there, be _yourself_ , and if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But they’ve got connections, man, and if you impress them, they might drop in a line over at _Newsweek_ or—or maybe even the _Times_. There aren't any screaming girls or flashing lights. Just you and your subject, one on one. Investigative journalism. Remember that?”

Jensen does remember it, like all those days and nights researching for his graduate studies. At the job he has now, he doesn’t really get the same excitement out of it when he knows that it’s a dead end and won’t _go_ anywhere. With the little importance they place on his articles, it’s hard to muster up any energy to try for _more_ , to do more.

Jared’s looking at him eye to eye, a rare moment where he’s open and honest, no smile coming on. Just stating the facts.

“That’s if anyone wants to hear me being a geek,” Jensen says, still unable to shake off the uneasiness. “It’s not as interesting as music or movies.”

“Fuck any of that.” Now, Jared claps a hand on Jensen’s shoulder, any urge he might’ve had to pull it away apparently gone. “You’re one of the most interesting, intelligent people I know. You’re funny, Jensen, you’re smart and talented and—and if you just let them _see_ that, like you’ve shown me… They’ll love it. God knows they’ll value it more than I should have.”

It’s a little unnerving how Jared still makes Jensen able to feel like _this_ , all flustered and harried, this unrelenting rush of energy that has him almost blushing. He shrugs as Jared pulls his hand away, starts to bring up a new e-mail.

“All right,” Jensen says, and even he’s amazed by how he sounds _excited_ about it, “I’ll do it.”

“Good, because I’m booked for this Friday.”

“Friday?” Jensen’s eyes widen. “But that’s the same day of the TRL taping!”

“ _Yeah_. No shit. They’re doing this later in the day, so it’ll finish a little after yours. Worry about your stuff. I’ll handle this,” Jared says, all business. He lifts his head and grins at Jensen, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “You _are_ dealing with an expert here.”

Jensen’s eyes roll before he knows it, murmuring. “I’m so _grateful_.”

“You’re damn right you are,” Jared says, a pleased-as-hell look on his face as he goes back to typing.

Jensen has to squash down this sudden urge to kiss Jared. It’s like he’s seeing, for the first time, the person he’s always hoped was there, under all the bravado and showboating. The way he bounces his leg restlessly as he’s typing, wipes his hand back over his head, pushes his hair back—Jared’s own longer hair that he doesn’t have right now—little quirks of movement all completely belong to Jared. It makes it easier now to see Jared’s essence throughout Jensen’s body.

But then it’s harder, too, because it’s a new and innocent essence that he realizes he wants, badly, and finds it hard to resist.

*

The week is a blur of frenzied work and phone calls on both fronts, the adjustment to _friends_ instead than _boyfriends_ happening not quite naturally or easily, but it's working for Jared. It’s got to, for the good of their careers, but most importantly of all, the good of their _sanities_.

They don’t move in together again, but Jared’s always visits Jensen, playing with the dogs, ordering takeout, and watching a game or two after work. Bad buddy cop movies, bad horror movies; the night after a shopping spree at Virgin Megastore has them watching movies until three in the morning—the only night Jared stays over—and they're bleary eyed but they’re both _grinning_ the next day at their jobs.

Barely ten minutes into setting up on Friday, Jared looks up to see Jensen rushing in, sweaty and breathing heavy in gulps, his hair a bird’s nest. He uncoils the string of his backstage pass from his neck, palms on his knees as he breathes out, collects himself. It’s a whole sucking air and gasping thing that Jared thinks makes his body sound like a vacuum, a weird sound that dies down as Jensen stares at Jared.

Jared’s running through his lines in his head, flipping index cards in his clasped palms, singing under his breath.

Jared had taken to singing once in a while, alone, _hidden_ , the past few… weeks. Whatever Jared’s said about Jensen’s body—both the good and the bad—his voice, fuck, he’s never had any complaints about Jensen’s voice. As much as it had the power to make Jared antsy, it had the power to turn him on. Sent a thrill right through him, like narcissism at its finest, hearing his ‘own’ voice and relaxing from it.

Jensen straightens and he stares for a moment, before the cameras shift into place, and the guest is brought in. Jared tries to stop thinking about the way Jensen’s staring at him as he stops singing. He turns in his chair and greets the guest. The guest is a guy who’s written a book claiming that within thirty to forty years, robots will look human enough, _real_ enough that humans will be able to fall in love and have sex with them.

All love bot jokes aside, once Jared gets the green light and countdown, he’s already leaning, body no longer tense. Wearing a crisp charcoal grey suit and white dress shirt, no tie, he looks _good_. ‘Good’ being the limit of attraction that Jared allows himself to think about. Bad enough it’s been weeks of restraining himself—as in, not being able to cup this face in his hands, to press this mouth against his own—and to… drag it all up again, that won’t do any good.

Still, the audition segment starts off smoothly when Jared’s on. He _pours_ on the charm, letting Jensen’s body do the work for him—it becomes a balance between his own easygoing nature and Jensen wanting to get down to the facts. He looks at Jensen’s notes from time to time, but Jared lets the conversation flow naturally, a trait that’d annoy his producers— _always stick to the script_ — but it works, here. It has the author laughing and divulging more than he should, joking too. The subject matter’s a little more entertainment than scientific than Jensen would probably like, judging by the way he shakes his head in amusement as he stands off to the side, but Jared knows it’s a start. It’ll gauge ‘Jensen’s’ highs and lows.

The twenty-odd minutes fly by when they call, “Cut!” for the final time. Jared stands up and shakes the author's hand, getting a, “Thanks,” in return. Soon the producers sweep up the author and talk with him, nodding at Jared to stay put.

Jensen comes by with his arms folded, raising an eyebrow.

“So, what’d you think?” Jared asks, the eagerness spilling forth, grinning.

“What…Where’d the singing come from?”

It throws Jared off, leaving him fussing with some lint on one of his thighs. He hesitates, and then looks back up again. “You know, you never let me tell you this and screw it, man, I just gotta tell you. Your voice. It's amazing.”

 _That_ seems to throw Jensen off too. He’s quiet for a moment before he says, “I thought you didn’t like it.”

“I’ve _always_ liked it. You just didn’t do it enough!” Jared waggles his finger, gesturing for Jensen to come closer, which he does. “I had a business proposition for Chad.”

“Is that what—?”

“No! God, no. I’ve been trying to see if he’ll help me tape you in the studio.”

Jensen’s eyebrows rise. “You’re not saying what I _think_ you’re saying.”

“Backup, Jensen. No singing upfront, no having to have an image, just, there're a lot CDs made in New York. And a good backup singer, dependable, reliable, well, it's something. And, and I'd get to hear your voice. You know. If we ever get out of this—thing.”

“Jared Padalecki, life coach,” Jensen deadpans, unfolding his arms to let them swing loosely by his sides. Then he gestures at the set, at the overhead lights, saying, “You don’t have to do all of this for me.”

“Yeah, I do.” Jared stands up. “Because it’s time I focus on someone who's not me for a change.”

Then it hits him right there, _the show_ , enough that Jared hits himself on the forehead, hands out. “Oh my God, the taping! I didn’t even ask! How’d it go?”

Jensen peers around Jared, left and right, checking his surroundings. He gives him his stony expression, and Jared’s high starts to sink again, somewhere right between his knees. But just as soon as that happens, a smile comes onto Jensen’s face, bright and cheerful.

He might’ve said, “It went great,” but Jared’s got his arms around Jensen’s shoulders, hugging him tight as he laughs.

He’s _gleeful_ , holding onto Jensen before he knows it, that burst of energy that he gets around him whenever something goes well. It’s been a damn long time since this has happened, Jared can tell, feeling how Jensen tenses underneath him for a few seconds. Then Jensen’s leaning his head against Jared’s, a soft brush of hair against Jared’s cheek.

After a moment, Jared pulls back, an apology on his tongue. Instead, he says, shakily, “Congratulations. Congrats, Jensen. You did it. I knew you had it in you.”

He pulls away, ignoring the urge to move in again when Jensen hesitates, takes a step _forward_. Jensen nods a little too emphatically, looking down at his shoes. Wearing his hosting clothes—blazer, t-shirt, and jeans, artfully rumpled and not too showy—Jensen looks like he’s wearing a mask. His body language is relaxed but it’s not _him_ , and now Jared misses seeing Jensen as he is, _really_ is, more than ever.

“What’re you doing after this?” Jensen asks, his voice faint before he looks up.

The producers are gesturing for Jared to come over, smiling. Could be a show, could be genuine, point is that he’s got to go over there and find out for himself.

Jared claps a hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “Taking the first step on your new career as a TV science journalist, that’s what.”

He grins and starts to go before Jensen grabs his jacket, stopping him.

“Do you want to come over to your place?” Jensen asks. He licks his lips, Jared imagining the fullness that isn’t there, displacement smoothed over by an illusion in his head, like he can _see_ Jensen, even if he’s looking at his own body. And his body is nervous, Jared can tell.

But he covers it up again, this habit that has Jared wishing for him _not_ to, now, not to hide anything. Let it all show. Jensen cuts him off, adding, “We can watch the taping. It’s on the TiVo.”

Jared smiles, his fingers brushing the back of Jensen’s hand as he pulls away. It's the barest touch and he feels this all over air of _good_ that’s new, that doesn’t come out of partying.

“Don’t forget the beer!” Jared calls over his shoulder as he heads towards the producers.


	5. Chapter 5

“Coming to you live, from Times Square…”

Jensen’s running through his paces, smiling at the right times. Collected and calm, even with the lights, with all the teenagers screaming. Only difference is that when he smiles, it throws Jared for a loop—he says so, pointing at the TV, “Wait, rewind that. Back, back!”

And that’s something Jensen can’t cover up—his dorky laugh, that little shuffle of his feet, how he almost bends at the knees unconsciously. He winces at it, but watches, fascinated at how his little quirks follow through. Carrie laughs at Jensen's jokes, and he almost looks smitten, like a teenager with a crush. At the end of the show, though, there’s a quick cut of him hugging Sophia, her arms wrapping around his neck as she whispers in his ear.

“‘You did great,’” Jensen says. He points to the TV with the neck of his beer bottle. “That’s what she told me.”

“How’d you stay so calm? I mean, you’re not like… flipping out or anything. It’s pretty amazing.”

“Carrie and I just talked about country music between commercials. Johnny Cash.” Jensen offers a little shrug. “For once, _my_ music knowledge comes in handy.”

He takes a pull of his beer as Jared turns to look at him, elbows on his knees, remote in one hand and a beer in the other. Jared leans back after he turns the TV off, moving on the couch so he’s in full view of Jensen’s profile. Jensen’s aware of Jared’s eyes on him, looking at him from head to toe. The slope of his nose and his straight posture, even if his body tries to slouch whenever it hits a couch-like surface. Jensen keeps his eyes half-lidded when he looks out of the corner of his eye over at Jared, a slow smile coming onto his face.

Jared’s looking at his mouth, completely focused on his _own_ mouth, and jaw, and cheeks; it’s weird, sure, but it’s better than earlier, during the commercial, where Jensen swears he saw Jared forcibly drag his gaze away from his crotch to the TV again.

So, of course, Jensen says it: “Only you would get turned on from getting a double dose of your own _body_.”

Jared snorts into the beer opening. He mumbles under his breath, tongue running along the edge of the beer before he runs it along his teeth, and looks over at Jensen again.

“To your new, TV future,” Jared says, offering his beer bottle. Jensen clinks it with his own bottle and they stay quiet for a minute, dull noise of the TV in the background. Something thunks in the other room down the hall, and it’s the dogs, Harley whapping his tail against the door as he chases after Sadie. They come to a wrassling heap on the floor near them, Jared and Jensen both looking over at them, like that’s a good distraction.

It is, for another minute. Because after that, Jared says, “You know, it’s not so bad being you.”

Jensen raises his eyebrows and downs more of the beer.

Jared huffs and continues, “Getting past the whole bowlegged, defective eyes and tongue and god, your hair…” Jared ticks them off with his fingers before he shrugs. “ _That_ , I’m not going to apologize about.”

“From the way you were acting, I thought being me was the worst thing that’s ever happened to you,” Jensen says, looking at the bottle in his hands, open lap. He avoids Jared’s eyes. “It’s no picnic being you either, Jared. I’m not used to all this. It’s—all these lights, and cameras. People after you. It’s a thousand miles a minute and I can’t keep up.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know, but—” Jared edges closer on the couch, resting an arm down the length of it, hand brushing Jensen’s shoulder. “You can do it. And we’ve got each other. If we, uh, if we stay stuck like this. Then I’m happy it had to be you. That’s the thing, Jensen. You keep _me_ from going off a thousand miles a minute. And I balance you out.”

“By driving me crazy,” Jensen acknowledges, taking another sip of his beer. He sucks his teeth, nodding. “You do a great job of that.”

“Hey. C’mon, man. Cut me some slack,” Jared says. “You’re not exactly the most _outgoing_ guy.”

“Should've thought about that before you checked out a registered MENSA member’s ass.” Jensen bites his lip. “Yeah, you’re right. Sometimes I kind of live in my head too much. ”

He puts the bottle down because the next minute’s going to be even _more_ embarrassing if he goes and spills the whole thing on himself. Which isn’t too out of the question when it comes to Jared’s hands.

“Maybe if we hadn't come into this with our own pre-conceived notions, it would’ve worked out,” Jensen starts, looking over at Jared. “You were up for a fling and I wanted a long term deal. I wanted—”

“Jensen,” Jared interrupts, his gaze fixed on his lap. He looks wistful and, with the bend of his head, almost like a different person. Different than _Jensen_ , hair, eyes—but then he looks up, brow furrowed.

“Yeah?”

“You were wrong the other night.”

Jensen stiffens, clearing his throat. “What?”

“You’ve always had me, since I first met you,” Jared says slowly.

Jensen cocks his head. “For more than a one night stand?”

“I didn’t know that yet, man. But I know now. I know a hell of a lot more than I did back then. But you were different. You’ve always been different. You’re—you’re not fake. And you’re genuine, and…”

Jared trails off. He shifts a little on the couch, this twist to his mouth like he’s a little kid, unsure of himself. “And now you gotta talk, man, because I need to know I’m not going crazy. That it’s been a year, and I want you so much I can’t even stand it.”

It’s the most blatantly romantic thing Jared’s ever said to him and Jensen can’t help but make a little noise in the back of his throat, because he’s realizing that finally, they’re on the same footing. That it’s like they’ve finally reached a common point of understanding.

Jared moves closer on the couch, a slow shuffle of his black slacks against the leather, breathing on Jensen’s collarbone. Jensen's eyes shut and there's a stirring in his belly, his breath stuttering, when Jared says, low, “Can I?”

“Yeah,” Jensen breathes out, even if his whole body goes stiff, like it’s the Junior Prom and he’s off on the sidelines, looking at all the other couples he can’t relate to. The fact that this memory’s popping into his head as Jared starts to kiss his neck, with his body and—and well, it all goes to show that science is a funny thing and Jensen’s past the point of sanity. Has been for a long, long time. Because Jared drags his mouth up, teeth scraping the faint stubble of Jensen’s neck, mouth pulling into a smile as he does, and there’s no thought after that.

Nothing else, save for response. Jensen's hand goes up, hesitates, then cups Jared’s jaw, a feeble grab as he tries to push his head. It works though, Jared getting the idea when their mouths touch.

It’s hesitant at first, getting a feel for it; kissing himself isn’t as weird as he thought it’d be, and that’s—that’s really good. His lips are full, red when he sucks them between his own, tongue darting into Jared’s mouth. Hesitant, then faster, hungry, with Jared pushing a hand to cup Jensen’s cheek, and Jensen trying to pull at Jared’s shirt, undo the buttons with a weak hand.

“Bed,” Jared says, muffled against Jensen’s mouth. Other words, too, dissolving into a curse when he bangs his shin on the coffee table as they struggle to get up and kiss at the same time.

They’re pawing, groping each other like a pair of teenagers, Jensen mumbling directions as they stagger from the living room into the hall. “There,” he says, “wait, wait, _Jared_ , God—”

“My _house_ ,” Jared says, smiles into the kiss, stripping off Jensen’s belt with a good tug. He knows where he’s going, could probably even do it blindfolded. He moves lower, ending just above Jensen’s collarbone as his blazer falls to the ground.

The trail of clothes follows them to the bedroom, where Jensen makes a backhanded grab for the drawer as his other hand slips under Jared’s waistband in a fumbling attempt to undo his belt. They’re not going to get anything done if they keep on like this, but Jensen doesn’t care.

It’s sloppy and awkward, interspersed with “Sorry!” and grumbles here and there. Sex is never perfect and with them, it’s sometimes a comedy of errors—tonight, it’s a freaking _circus_ , Jensen almost hitting his head on the bed as he falls on it, Jared’s half-naked body on top.

Jensen won’t stand for it, though, turning Jared over as he pulls his pants off, long fingers hitching onto the silk boxers and pulling those off, too. He leans down the length of Jared and kisses up the length of his belly, down the dip and up the curve of his abs.

“Jensen,” Jared manages to say before Jensen’s tongue is right at the base of his cock, working up to the tip. It’s the way Jensen's always liked it himself and it’s all kinds of amazing that he can gauge exactly what he likes because, well, it’s _his_ body that he’s doing this to.

Jensen licks his lips before continuing, trying to keep from voicing the weird Jared-like thought in his head: they are going to be first men, save for some really limber contortionists, to ever suck their own cocks.

All it took was a completely unexplainable phenomenon to allow them to have this opportunity. Another scientific first.

Though now, it’s not like he’s got the urge to pull out a notepad and take notes. He’s too busy for that.

“Dude, why are you _teasing_ me?” Jared says, gritting out the words between clenched teeth, his posture all tense and impatient. “I'm not above begging.”

“You were _never_ above begging,” Jensen says. As an afterthought—and why not, may as well let another inhibition loose—he adds, “I always liked that.”

“God,” Jared says and then he’s up and pulling Jensen back up, _over_ Jared. He pushes back hair off of Jensen’s face and kisses him, a dizzying kiss that may have knocked Jensen’s I.Q. down a lot. They’re moving against each other too, and it’s too many sensations all at once, too _much_. Jared is leaking pre-come onto Jensen’s hip, his leg hooking Jensen close, like Jared’s worried that Jensen’s going to pull away. _That_ definitely isn’t happening, Jensen would say, if they weren’t still kissing like they were trying to break another world record, that is.

“Condom,” Jensen says. He probably needs some qualifying words around that statement but he can barely get that out, much less anything that isn’t a groan. Jared’s hand sneaks between them and he’s jerking Jensen off, his hand slick with sweat. It’s a little too much friction but Jensen can’t really complain because it’s… well, it’s damn _good_.

“Yeah,” Jared agrees, a laugh escaping out of his mouth.

“Um.” Jensen pulls back a little, kneeling in front of Jared. “How are we going to do this?”

“You, you show me how you like it and I’ll return the favor? It’s pretty easy.”

And before Jared can speak again, Jensen sucks in a breath and says, “Turn around.”

Jared’s eyes just go wide and that look is kind of _weird_ but it’s still Jared there and there’s this—this relief Jensen doesn’t really understand at all. That’s okay though, because Jared does turn around, without question. Jensen can scrub his face in peace and kill any and all his thoughts about how he’s going to fuck his own ass.

So yes, that’s really, really weird but at the same time, it’s oddly, well at least it’s scientifically interesting. Right.

Jensen leans over Jared, flicking an earlobe with the very tip of his tongue. “Promise you’ll return the favor?”

“Jesus,” Jared says.

There’s lube in the nightstand and condoms too. Jensen's done all this before, and sure, he’s used to it, but it’s still different and _new_. But _better_ , because he knows himself and how his body responds. It’s amazing how Jared reacts, each touch making him shudder or groan, curse, different noises that make Jensen wonder if he’s really that _noisy_ too because it comes out of his mouth so naturally.

By the time Jared’s pushing back on Jensen’s two fingers, on his hands and knees this time, Jensen’s rambling too. Probably the most inane things, “I missed this,” and “I always wanted you,” and he really hopes he didn’t let _I love you_ escape, because that’d be too strange, saying something like that, the weight of it while he’s working a third finger in. There should be a more appropriate time, and as good as this is, Jared flushed and sweaty, this isn’t the time. Not yet.

Other than finger-fucking your kind of ex-boyfriend who's currently occupying your own body? Jensen’s really amazed that he ever has sex with the way his thoughts keep on going.

“I always liked it when you did this,” Jensen says after Jared’s nearly lost his mind, still fucking himself open on Jensen’s fingers. “But _I_ like this—”

Before Jared can question him, Jensen’s leaning over, covering Jared with his body. Pushing inside, still tight and he has to take it slow. He lets Jared adjust, and then just holds himself from moving. From thinking.

“This?” Jared’s gasping, sucking breaths that make his body shudder—a motion that Jensen feels, deep and _good_ , God, yes, _this_.

“Yeah.”

“You’re going to kill me,” Jared says.

“What?” Jensen tries pulling back, pulling out, but Jared stops him, twisting an arm to catch Jensen by the neck. He holds Jensen still and Jared _squirms_. God, that just makes Jensen want to stay there forever. But here, he remembers his manners, being considerate, asks, “Do you need to—”

“Jensen,” Jared says, cutting him off, gripping him a little hard by the back of his neck. “I’m not gonna be _alive_ to fuck you if you keep on stalling. _God_.”

Jensen doesn’t argue, doesn’t _speak_ , because who needs speaking when he could pull out a little, a shallow thrust that has Jared hissing _thank you_ between clenched teeth. Jensen can’t help but increase the pace, the muscles in his legs shaking as he tries to hold off the inevitable, tightness in his balls belying his efforts.

“Oh God, I’m gonna—”

Jensen shuts his eyes, and as he does, he’s gripping narrow hips, and gives up the fight, coming with Jared’s name tearing out in a mangled shout.

There’s not much more than he can do but flop onto his back on the other side of the bed, grateful that Jared has a giant-sized bed for his giant self. Jared’s got his head cocked to the side, watching Jensen with an amazed look in his eyes, his mouth slack. His tongue darts out for a second, and then, he says, “You know one of my deep dark fantasies?”

“Now you want to try killing me?”

Jared winces a little as he gets on his side, Jensen looking down to see how Jared’s still hard.

“Your body has amazing control,” Jared says dismissively, stroking himself once for emphasis. “For all that you’re a freaking lightweight. I—I liked watching you. When we were fucking.”

Jensen doesn't answer. It's pretty hard to do so when Jared’s on top of him now, laying a sweet long kiss. He breaks away with a messy smack, that grin Jensen can always, _always_ recognize.

“Now let me make you feel good.”

“You already do,” Jensen tells him but he’ll still spread his legs a little wider, thinking that they’ve got all the time in the world.

*

The first thing Jared notices about the morning after aren’t the aches and pains after a night of long, _good_ sex.

It’s that he’s staring at the back of Jensen’s head, _Jensen’s_ head, short hair that looks soft to the touch at the nape of his neck.

Jared swallows and lifts his hand, getting a good view of his hand and arm, the muscle and veins. The length and reach that he knows are his _own_. Most of all, he can feel his morning wood bump up at the curve of Jensen’s ass and oh, he can see it _all_ now. Little things, like the scar on the back of his knee, the tiny birthmark on his side. Jared can see the faintest freckles on Jensen’s shoulders. Freckles that he presses his mouth against, soft kisses that he enjoys so he doesn’t resort to the other plan, which involves him jumping off the bed and running around the room naked.

Jensen quirks his mouth and scrunches his nose before his eyelids flutter open.

“Stop drooling on your shoulder.”

“We’ve switched, genius. _You’re_ drooling. And it’s _your_ shoulder,” Jared points out, edge of a crazed high coming out in his voice. Jensen turns in the bed, peering over at Jared before he does a double take, awkwardly rolling as he’s wrapped up in the sheets, Jared weighing them down.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Jared says, running his thumb over Jensen’s bottom lip, knowing know how fucking _sensitive_ Jensen’s body is to that. He’s smiling when Jensen groans. “Didja miss me?”

“What the—we switched. We switched _back_.”

“Because of the cosmic fusing of my yang to your yin,” Jared states matter-of-factly. He shrugs. “Or your dick in my ass. Or my dick in _your_ ass. Whatever, after the tingling feeling I felt a few hours ago, I’m glad I didn’t wet the bed.”

Jensen’s eyes are half-open, his early morning grimace. He narrows his eyes further and says, throwing a hand over his face, “Yeah, you’re back to normal, all right.”

Over on the bedside table, Jared’s iPhone jingles. Jensen mumbles about that “damn Umbrella song,” another amazing thing, to see Jensen recognizing a song that’s come out after the millennium. Jared rolls over and picks it up, checking his text messages.

_Jared—_

_You did great. Meeting today at eleven. Talk show. L.A. is waiting!_

_—Chris_

Almost bedwetting moments and major mind transfers aside, the _text message_ is what throws him for a loop. It’s the logical progression though—prove he hasn’t lost his game and they’ll do what? Just pat him on the back? With Jensen filling in and doing a good job—setting boundaries, being friendly but not overly so—it gives the producers some more interest. They’d mention it to him in notes passed, comments, sometimes, now that Jared thinks about it. _What’s his angle?_ and maybe—maybe he can see the changes. Maybe he can. Make this all work and that…

…That means he has a meeting to go to. In an hour.

Jared rolls over to look at Jensen. He’s still sleepy, glasses that he’s just put on at an angle on his face, hair flat and mussed. He’s sweaty and blotchy, might get a few hickeys on his neck, but it all makes Jared want to stay with him, right here. They could do that. Never get up from this spot—they’d become recluses and build forts out of pillows. Tissue boxes for shoes or whatever Mr. Burns on _The Simpsons_ used that one episode.

Once the _Simpsons_ analogy comes into this, Jared _knows_ he’s got to go.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning down to kiss Jensen. He misses; the kiss gets the corner of his nose and upper lip, getting a pleased noise out of Jensen. “I've got to go to work. Emergency meeting. It’s about the talk show.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Jensen nods, licking his lips. “Yeah, that’s—that’s good, right? L.A. Sunshine. Celebrities…” Jensen pauses to consider. “…lots of bad plastic surgeries.”

“Question is, will you still love me if I get those implants,” Jared drawls, then catches himself. Throwing that word around isn’t something they’ve done, something Jared never bothered to be concerned about before and to do it now, easy, makes it weird. Like that’s the secret word that’ll bring this to an end—bring out the cameras, _hi, you’re on TV, because this is all a dream and can’t be real!_

It’s amazing how these thoughts crash around his head so easy.

“Depends on where you get them. I might love you more if they’re ass implants,” Jensen says without any mirth—at least, for a few seconds before he grins a little, soft and sleepy. But that smile fades a little and Jensen coughs as if that covers it up.

Jared kisses him again, getting his aim right this time, but Jensen doesn’t seem as into it as before.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” Jared says, whispers against Jensen’s mouth.

He pulls back and Jensen nods, lips pulling into a thin line.

*

It takes a few days for any cracks to start showing.

Jensen’s got a lot of stuff on his mind, but his thoughts contain none of the crap related to one Jared Padalecki, the same one he hasn’t seen in four days straight.

Even when Jared was taking a shower, rushing to get dressed, smiling all the while that morning, Jensen couldn’t help but feel something was off. Like he was dizzy and breathless all at once, and he hasn’t really felt that before—once, just once, when they got together, and now it rushed back in full force.

Jared said he’d be back, and Jensen had to ignore the urge to say, “Yeah, right.”

After four days go by, with phone calls and text messages getting no response, Jensen settles into a grumpy ambivalence. Save for showing up at the studio—and that’d be disconcerting to feel like an outsider again since he isn’t in Jared’s body any longer—he doesn’t know how to contact him.

Besides the obvious trip to Jared’s apartment. Which he doesn’t need to see right now, not when he’s got too many memories and nights spent in a different body, one that belongs to someone he cares about deeply.

And yeah, that’s what it is. The ambivalence settles into understanding—a last hurrah, that’s all it was. Goodbye lover sort of fuck. They agreed to put this all behind them, to get along and try to be friends.

It's okay to want to have a lot of sex with your friend, right? Jensen thinks and tries to figure out a way that this won't lead him to constantly ignoring erections in Jared's presence.

Fucking Jared. Fucking _jerk_.

‘Jensen’s’ science interview segment airs unedited and as is the night after the taping; the producers like it enough to go with it, no reshoots, just an interview, one on one. They’re _ecstatic_ about the number of viewers and amount of feedback on Jensen's segment—more than the other segments aired on the news program—and that’s how Jensen finds himself typing up his latest (and last) article, this time about hybrid electric vehicles. He thinks it might be a joke from Steve to suggest this topic for his last article, but either way, Steve’s pushing for him to get at _least_ page five. Jensen’s put in his two weeks notice, trying to distract himself.

Today, he’s juggling the article and setting up a science blog on the producers’ advice. Blogs have never exactly been his kind of thing, but once he tried it out the other day, the writing starts flowing effortlessly. These long, long entries on everything of interest to him—sure, the novelty will wear off soon, but between the calls and appearances he's got scheduled, it’s refreshing to be able to let his thoughts out.

He rubs at the bridge of his nose, unconsciously trying to pull off his glasses, but they aren't there. No glasses. Contacts.

Jared’s contacts.

Jared’s _voice_ , too, background music to the jumble of thoughts Jensen tries to pick apart and straighten out. It’s hard to do so when Jensen can’t see past Jared’s smile on _Jensen’s_ face, displaced but still him, a new shade of personality he always hoped for.

He’s offering this bright smile in Jensen’s thoughts, authentic, no other bullshit or mask. Except the soundtrack gets louder and Jared’s lips don’t move.

And that’s when Jensen focuses, gaze lifting from the document in front of him to the blinking light of the answering machine.

“…please, Jensen, could you pick up? It’s me,” Jared says, wind causing static on his end of the line.

Jensen’s glad no one’s around to see his full-body leap over the small kitchenette counter to grab for the main phone. He takes a second, and then answers, out of breath and sounding completely desperate and _stupid_ , “Yeah?”

“Could you come down? I’m outside. I’ve got a cab waiting.”

Waiting to take him off to L.A.

Jensen goes down, taking the stairs, his thoughts numb as the rest of him. He passes the superintendent who says something about the water being turned off for a few hours, but it might as well be static. A number of emotions run through Jensen’s mind as he’s coming down, anger and disgust as he gets to the second floor. Why should he care if Jared’s leaving? He’s only been planning it for weeks, ever since before they switched bodies.

Like salt in the wound, when he gets outside, the cab is waiting at the sidewalk, Jared leaning against the trunk. The trunk’s half open, old and new designer suitcases sticking out. He’s wearing a simple t-shirt, long coat and jeans, his hair windswept and in his eyes. His expression though, isn’t as relaxed as his posture is; he stares at Jensen rigidly, mouth a thin line.

“You didn’t come back,” Jensen states. He looks from Jared to the car, then back again, unsure of where to focus his gaze. “You didn’t call. I thought—”

“—that I’d left? Yeah. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. I just—I got swamped in negotiations,” Jared says, trails off for a moment. _You know how it is_ , is implied in his tone, a common thing he’d say when Jensen didn’t know how the industry worked, or simply wanted answers.

Except Jared seems to realize it, because he shakes his head, adding, “And I got scared. But—”

“So, you got the job,” Jensen interrupts, tone dragging, slow. _Everything’s_ slow, even the way he shoves his hands into his pockets, tight and uncomfortable. Jensen’s aware that he looks like he’s just woken up and that it’s one in the afternoon, but he really, truly doesn’t give a fuck.

“Yeah, I got the job,” Jared says with a nod, fingers tapping erratically on the edge of the trunk. “I got it. On one condition, though.”

Jensen moves closer, right on the edge of the curb. He teeters a little, like a kid walking down the length of it. “What?”

“See, I figure with the way the market’s going, and how there’s this thing the kids call the Internets these days—and so, why can’t we try out a web series? No need for me to move, and… Hell, if we fall flat on our faces, at least it’s only a few thousand that can see it, not three million. Unless I pull somethin’ weird and do some dance moves or get Harley and Sadie to do pet tricks on YouTube.”

Jensen nods. “A web series. That sounds good.”

Jared smiles again, that tight weird smile and he says, the words rushed out and colliding with each other, “You haven’t heard my condition yet.”

“What? What do you mean ‘your’—?”

“I have a reason, here,” Jared says. “A reason to stay. Something you can’t find in L.A. _Someone_.”

Jensen raises his eyebrows. When he speaks, his throat feels dry. “A someone. Okay.”

“Yeah, see, the thing is,” Jared says with a grin, scratching the back of his head, hair too long and messy. “When we switched back—the _morning_ we switched back. I noticed something different. I woke up gay for Jensen fucking Ackles.”

“You—what?”

“Jensen fucking Ackles, man,” Jared says, shaking his head. “I think I’m in love. With you. Screw it. I don’t _think_ , I do. I love you, Jensen.”

Now’s when the feeling turns into a freefall, making Jensen stumble a little as he edges closer. Then because Jensen’s waiting for this to be some kind of very bizarre parting gift, _surprise_ , he says numbly, “But—but I thought you didn’t like neat and organized.”

“I _love_ neat and organized. Especially the kinda neat where books get organized by the Dewey Decimal System. Always had a thing for my school librarian.”

Jensen rolls his eyes, now just a foot away. “And the suitcases?”

“Well, since you’re moving into my place, no way am I letting you carry your stuff in those ratty old suitcases your grandma gave you,” Jared explains, shrugs.

“Okay. Um, Jared? What happened to your car?”

“Sold it," Jared says. “Apparently hybrid cars are the wave of the future. The editor of the _Daily News_ has his hottest journalist working on the story. And I live in New York City. Subways are okay as long as you keep your eyes to yourself.”

"You know what? I don't even want to know.”

“C’mon, Mr. J. F. Ackles. Cab’s waitin’.”

Jensen cocks an eyebrow. “You... do realize my middle name is Ross, right?”

“Yeah, it's just as gay as the rest of you," Jared says, smiling wide. “And I love it too.”

“Right, because Tristan is really not kind of fey at all.”

“Did you just say _‘fey’_?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

And he does, wrapping his arms around Jensen, his hands on Jensen’s face, warm and flushed cheeks in the cold. The thin t-shirt and pounding heartbeat in his chest does nothing for his nerves, but Jared’s here. Warm and all encompassing, his tongue and mouth this source of warmth, of _good_ that Jensen can’t be without. The kiss lasts a long time, long enough that it’s both pain and pleasure. Pain in the cold, pleasure that he’s _missed_.

Jared pulls away by a few inches, grinning wide, a soft kiss against Jensen’s mouth. “Oh, and we should, like, work on your bossiness. You know. And uh, if you want to put any of your fantasies into reality...”

“Oh _God_ ,” Jensen says, a little blush tinting his cheeks but he shrugs it off, leaning close, nuzzling the side of Jared's face and oh, he likes that. No, he _loves_ it, and he tells Jared the same and Jared laughs, a nervous little laugh.

“Dude, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you. Like, the real you. Face to face. I’ve missed all of it.”

“Not all of it. If you love me, you’ll let me show _you_ just what I know you’d like,” Jensen whispers, grazing Jared’s bottom lip with his teeth. Jensen pushes up against him as he presses close, his tongue moving over Jared’s, soft, warm. “And uh, I love you, too. If you were wondering.”

“I wouldn't have guessed. We're going to have to christen my apartment with lots of ‘moving in together’ sex, just so you know.”

Jensen drops a hand around Jared’s back, squeezing his ass, feeling the curve of Jared’s smile against his mouth.

He can’t call do-over, but they’ve got time to make the most out of this second run.

Besides, this time, he knows Jared inside and out.

But for now, Jensen’ll settle for the fantasies. The ones that _don’t_ involve the universe pitching in.

_end_


End file.
